


A World Without Heroes

by Snellby



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Dystopian Future, Gen, Lots of shit goes down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snellby/pseuds/Snellby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It felt like forever since the golden age of superheroes; when the man of steel kept a watchful eye over Metropolis, and the dark knight hid in the shadows of Gotham, poised to punish the wicked. It had been such a brief period in time, but one that Richard Grayson tried to hold onto with grasping hands. He'd never forget the rush of running across the Gotham skyline alongside his mentor; the wind in his hair, his soul flying. After the death of his parents, the world had seemed so cold and bleak. His emotions had been in turmoil, his anger and hate festering like an open wound. If Bruce hadn't been there for him...</p><p>But the days of superheroes were gone.</p><p>It's been a year since the Purge, an event that resulted in the end of supervillainy...but also the end of superheroes. The members of Young Justice and their mentors find themselves reeling in the aftermath, trying to find their place in a world suddenly working against them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where they are Now

**Author's Note:**

> Heyheyhey, just transferring this from my fanfiction.net in hopes of continuing it. Sorry about the couple typos. I'll try to fix them soon!

**Chapter 1: Where They Are Now.**

It felt like forever since the golden age of superheroes; when the man of steel kept a watchful eye over Metropolis, and the dark knight hid in the shadows of Gotham, poised to punish the wicked. It had been such a brief period in time, but one that Richard Grayson tried to hold onto with grasping hands. He'd never forget the rush of running across the Gotham skyline alongside his mentor; the wind in his hair, his soul flying. After the death of his parents, the world had seemed so cold and bleak. His emotions had been in turmoil, his anger and hate festering like an open wound. If Bruce hadn't been there for him...

But the days of superheroes were gone.

Dick had gotten off lucky, being human. A slap on the wrist, and a tracking anklet to make sure he didn't take to the skies again. Robin's wings had been clipped, but it could have been much worse. He could have been like the rest of the team; alien, meta-human, burdened with terrible powers that made them a threat to society.

"Almost done with your homework, Dick?"

The teen turned to his mentor, offering a slight smile, closing the textbook he'd been reading.

"Almost, Bruce. You know Greek mythology isn't my thing. These stories are way too tedious."

Bruce Wayne chuckled, taking a few staggering steps forward, leaning heavily on a cane, his left leg immobile and stiff. Dick frowned as the man stopped mid-stride, obviously winded, his face drawn and in pain.

"You really should be saving your strength for tonight." Dick said. "You've got to give that speech–"

"I know." Bruce sighed, shaking his head. "I was just feeling restless. Nervous. It's been a while since I've appeared in public."

Dick got to his feet and took his mentor's arm, guiding him slowly from the room.

"Alfred and I will be there the entire time, okay?" He said.

Bruce merely shook his head again, eyes focussed on the oriental carpets.

When news got out that Bruce had agreed to give up his cowl peacefully, Dick had never imagined that the experience would turn him into the quiet, cowed man who now limped beside him. He had imagined Bruce consumed by the anger always simmering beneath the surface; trapped in the inferno rising from within. A bitter, heartless man, driven by the memories of his fallen comrades.

But no.

Whatever had happened in those three weeks after his disappearance had changed him into a quiet, broken soul.

After Bruce's injury made the stairs too difficult to manage, he had installed an antique glass elevator to help him get around the mansion. The two walked inside, and Dick pushed the button that would take them to the first floor. It was almost time for dinner, and Alfred would be steamed if they were late.

"Don't worry, Bruce." Dick said, allowing himself a slight smile. "If you get nervous, just imagine the whole room's in their underwear."

Bruce didn't laugh.

* * *

Wallace West had been born human, as average as any other boy or girl. He had possessed incredible intelligence, yes, and a gift for science that endeared him to his uncle, but other than that, he was normal.

Until that accident in the lab.

He could remember the pain, the feeling of chemicals burning his skin. And yet, he had emerged from the incident virtually unscathed. It had been a miracle...a blessing.

But that was then.

The inhibitor collar around his neck chaffed, it always did, a constant reminder of what he'd lost. With a sigh, the teen tried to pry his fingers beneath it, just enough to rub some cream on the reddened skin, but the ring of metal didn't have a lot of give. Just enough to allow him full movement, nothing more. It was humiliating–humbling the docs had said–to have to wear it day in and day out. A stigma. A brand. He wanted nothing more than to saw it off and run away again.

The former speedster scoffed. Because that had worked so well before.

"Master Wallace?" A voice called from the door. Wally turned, seeing the Wayne's ever-loyal butler Alfred Pennyworth standing there, tray of food in hand. The boy forced a smile, wincing slightly as he irritated the bruise dominating the right side of his face. He'd always bruised like a peach, but it hadn't really been an issue for someone with superfast healing.

"I assumed that you would not be joining us for dinner again tonight, so I took the liberty of bringing your meal to you." The butler said, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

"Thanks." Wally said.

Bruce, and Alfred, and Dick...they'd really been a godsend the past few days. After returning from the compound, his welcome at home had been anything but warm, his dad's anger taking a sudden turn for the worst. What was once occasional violence turned into an everyday event, and to make matters worse, Wally was now powerless...he couldn't run, couldn't heal like he used to. The marks of his father's rage were all over his body, shockingly visible against his pale skin.

He knew that he had to get away.

With both Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris missing, Wally had turned to his closest friend, Dick, and the rest was history.

"I'm not really hungry though."

He never was anymore.

"That's a shame." Alfred tutted, moving toward the door. "I slaved all day over a hot stove making that delectable slice of pie for you. Surely you have room for that."

"Maybe." Wally said, sitting on the edge of his bed, picking at the pie with a fork. Blueberries oozed out, staining the white china purple. It did look delicious, piping hot, covered in a thin glaze.

"Regardless, I do think you should join Master Dick tonight at the gala." Alfred continued. "He could use your support."

"Looking like this?" The boy asked, setting his fork down on the plate. He wasn't sure  _what_  he was talking about; his bruised face or the inhibitor collar around his neck.

"It's up to you, Master Wallace." The butler said. "I do advise you to eat though. Starving yourself will do you no good."

Only when Alfred was gone, his footsteps long faded down the hall, did Wally chance a bite of pie. He chewed and swallowed, the morsel falling into his stomach like a brick. He suddenly felt sick.

Rolling onto his side, the boy turned his back to the plate of food, staring blankly out of his bedroom window at the setting sun.

* * *

Smallville wasn't much of a town; just a tiny little pinprick on the map, but one that Clark Kent knew intimately as home. Despite how much time he'd spent in Metropolis, a big piece of his heart had always been trapped in the past, remembering the sleepy streets, the friendly townsfolk...

...walking with his father through the cornfields.

After the purge, Clark hadn't felt like going back to the city. It was part of a different chapter in his life, a chapter that had closed all too soon. No matter how he tried, he could never go back to what he'd had there; to the  _Daily Planet_ , to his closest friends, Jimmy...and Lois...

He couldn't go back, as much as his heart ached for his old life. Not with the collar around his neck standing out like a beacon.

So, he had gone home.

Ma Kent had welcomed him back with open arms, and a fresh-baked strawberry and rhubarb pie. He ate until he was full, until he was more than full, enjoying simply being back in the open air, free, with his mother, where he was safe.

"I was so worried when I heard what was happening on the news." Ma said, shaking her head. The two were sitting, side-by-side, resting upon a swinging chair on the front porch. The sun was setting slowly over the cornfields, bathing them in yellow and orange and pink. "The purge of all superheroes."

"Super villains as well, Ma." Clark corrected.

"Don't try and justify what they did." His mother continued, her voice growing cold. "During that whole time, I could only think 'what if Clark doesn't come home?' 'what if I never get to see him again?'"

"But, I'm here, Ma." The man replied, taking his mother's frail, wrinkled hand. "I made it out, I'm fine."

He could see that she was crying silently, tears tracking down her face.

This was his fault.

From the steps, Superboy...Connor, was listening silently, his hands fisting in the fabric of his jeans. The boy hadn't had anywhere else to go, no family to turn to. As strained as their relationship was, Clark couldn't let the boy stay at the compound. He wasn't a super villain, he was a boy. He deserved to be free.

"Ma, I'm not going to leave you again. I'm going to stay right here."

The man pulled her into an embrace, gently wiping away her tears. He hated it when she cried. If he had any say in it, she would never cry again.

  



	2. The Bat's Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year since the Purge, an event that resulted in the end of supervillainy...but also the end of superheroes. The members of Young Justice and their mentors find themselves reeling in the aftermath, trying to find their place in a world that has no place for them.

**Chapter 2: The Bat's Speech.**

"Master Dick, your bow-tie is crooked."

"Sorry Alfred." The young man replied, attempting to straighten the offending bow, only to have Alfred reach in, and undo the entire thing.

"You tied it wrong again." The butler tutted. "Haven't you been doing this long enough?"

"I guess I'm just nervous."

And why wouldn't he be? This was Bruce's first public appearance since the purge. It was a big event, and one that he hoped the former dark knight was up to. He'd been silent all through dinner, eating only a meager portion, before retiring to his study to look over his speech again.

"You have every right to be." Alfred continued. "We just have to have faith that Bruce can make it through. We have to believe in his abilities."

"Is Wally coming?"

"I'm afraid not."

Dick tried not to feel disappointed. Wally had been through a lot during the purge, as had many other of the various aliens and meta-humans who had refused to go quietly. Hunted, chased, forced into lead-lined armored vans, dragged into the compounds bleeding, bruised; frightened of the unknown that loomed before them.

Dick had been lucky.

"He'll come out when he's ready." The boy said, examining his finished bow-tie in the mirror, admiring Alfred's perfect handywork.

"Thanks, Alfred."

"It's no problem." The man replied with a warm smile. "You need to be getting downstairs soon. The decorators are almost finished setting up."

* * *

It had been a long time since Wayne Manor had looked so splendid; with soft white lights wrapped around the banisters, waiters mingling through the crowd, balancing trays topped with appetizers and smalls flutes of champagne. The lights were dim, a string quartet playing soft, somber melodies, as Gotham's upperclass gossiped, lingering in the home of the infamous dark knight.

Jim Gordon had been inside the manor many times before...one of the first being that fateful night when the Waynes had passed...It all seemed like so long ago, a tragic case, but one that he had seen much too often before and since.

However, he had refused to let his experiences harden his heart, and on that night, when faced with a suddenly orphaned boy, he had put a blanket around the child's shoulders, looked into his stormy eyes, reddened from tears, and told him that everything would be okay.

But how could it? The poor boy's entire world had been shattered, his parent's torn away by bullets and greed. There was a good chance that Bruce would fall apart, damaged beyond repair. That was another thing Gordon had seen too much of in his long career.

However, Bruce grew into a confident and capable adult, a good head to the company his father had once led He was smart–if not occasionally a player with the ladies–and kind-hearted, as evidenced by how he had cared for Richard all these years, selflessly taking him under his wing...

But now...

Everything was twisted and wrong. Bruce Wayne wasn't just the man he appeared on the outside. There was a whole other level to him, a dark side.

The side of him that had broken, snapped that night when his parent's died. Batman was all of his anger, all of his rage, another persona that he could slip into and use to take out his aggression. It had shaken Jim's entire world when he had found out, distracted by the events of the purge, shoved aside as the Eclipse SWAT teams had invaded Gotham's streets, going after not only the Joker, and the Penguin, Two-Face and Poison Ivy, but also the dark knight himself, storming this very manor, running up the stairs, and cornering Bruce in his study before he could even defend himself.

Thank God that Richard had been in school. Thank God that he didn't have to see his mentor, his adopted father thrown from a two-story window and dragged into one of those cursed lead-lined vans. Gordon had been there to witness the entire thing...he'd been there afterwards when the boy had come home, suddenly alone again...lost again.

And there was nothing he could do. Jim had never felt so helpless.

Despite his cold nature, Batman had been a friend to him, an ally, of that he had no doubt. The man had saved his life on countless occasions, the life of his daughter...hell, he had saved the entirety of Gotham again and again and again. He was one of the founding members of the justice league. He hated guns and abhorred unnecessary violence. Despite how he had lost himself to an endless quest for revenge against an anonymous killer, he was still inherently good.

But, that hadn't saved him from the purge.

It hadn't saved Superman, or the Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, or the Flash. All of the superheroes that the world depended on; gone. Simply gone. And all that was left behind were these alter egos; mere shells of who they once were.

"I can't believe that Dick was Robin the entire time. He's just my age, Daddy."

Jim turned to his daughter, and sighed. He had been reluctant to let her come along, but she had insisted, and when had he ever been able to deny her anything?

"It makes me wonder what kind of man Bruce really is, to allow someone so young..."

Jim shook his head.

"I don't know the whole story. I won't judge him until I know everything."

"Dick never seemed miserable to me." Barbara replied. "He always spoke fondly of Bruce. Like a father."

"People deal with grief in different ways." The commissioner murmured. "Bruce chose to fight for justice, to avenge his parent's deaths by preventing the deaths of others. It's likely he taught Richard to cope the same way. The question is...how are they going to cope now?"

Jim turned to the stage at the head of the ballroom, and spotted Bruce for the first time that night. The man was seated in a wheelchair, Richard and Alfred by his side, as always.

It was difficult seeing the man in such a state. He'd lost weight and his skin was paler than ever before, which was saying something for someone who had spent most of his time in a cave. Dark bruises hung beneath his eyes, his hair was going grey at the temples, his suit was rumpled and ill-fitting. He looked as though he'd aged ten years since the Purge. A different man; a changed man.

An old man that had seen too much pain in the world.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want us up there, Bruce?" Richard asked, helping his mentor to his feet, handing him his cane.

"I'm sure." Bruce replied, struggling to find his balance. "I need to do this alone."

"Master Bruce, we'll be in the audience the whole time." Alfred said, "If you falter, you just have to find us. We're here for you."

Richard and Alfred left Bruce at the podium, finding a place near the front to stand and watch. Bruce looked so small up there, frail and fragile. Dick had to believe that he could make it through; that he could deliver his speech to acquaintances, friends, and strangers alike, to justify his actions as the Batman, to regain their trust.

When Bruce had first returned home to the manor, Dick had watched the protestors gather outside the gate, demanding that Wayne Enterprises be turned over to someone more trustworthy, not someone who dressed like a bat and ran around in the night. Business rivals moved in for the kill, trying to drive Bruce to sell, trying to convince trustees and execs to side with them, but none had faltered. The company was still Bruce's to hold.

And he'd never let it go, even if he had to leave Gotham, even if he had to hide out in exile, he would never let his father's legacy fall into the hands of the greedy and the corrupt. Dick had to admire his fortitude, even in the face of all this chaos.

The room fell silent.

Bruce took his place at the podium, ruffling his notes, clearing his throat, peering out at the crowd.

And then...he began.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." He said. "Thank you all for coming tonight. It was a bigger turnout than I was expecting."

His voice had once seemed so natural, so refined. He'd been doing public speaking his entire life. He had lived on the stage. Now it was wooden, forced; very stiff and practiced.

"I feel...great regret, for deceiving you, all of you, for so long. You, here in this audience, whether you were close friends, or simply citizens of Gotham, I lied to you. For that, I'm sorry." Bruce paused, rifling through his notes. Dick could see that he was leaning heavily on the podium, his face flushing from exertion and nerves.

" _Come on, Bruce. You can do this."_

"My intention...was...it wasn't to hurt anyone. I wanted to be an image of hope for Gotham city. To help bring it back to its former glory. I wanted to make sure that what happened to myself as a child, would never happen to anyone else. However..."

The man paused, his eyes wandering over the crowd, wandering over all of the faces of the people he had tried to protect. What was he thinking right now? Was he wondering if they would turn their back on him? Force him to live a solitary life locked away in his manor, or could they manage to overlook the lies? Could they learn to trust Bruce Wayne again?

His closest friends, Lucius Fox, Jim Gordon...they hadn't known. They hadn't known anything. Could he bear to lose them?

" _I'm not going to leave you Bruce."_

For a brief moment, Dick and his mentor locked eyes, the former boy wonder smiling, giving the man a reassuring thumbs up. It was almost over. No matter what, he, and Alfred and Leslie–the ones who understood the Batman and his plight–would always be there. They'd stuck with him through all of this. Why would they leave now?

Bruce gave a slight nod, setting down his notes, focussing on the audience, and, for a moment, Dick could see a bit his old self shine through; He could see Bruce Wayne, the man who could charm any crowd. Bruce Wayne, who was confident, calm and collected. A public figure. An idol.

"I was only one man. I saved many, but there were others that I couldn't get to in time. I did what I could for those affected by tragedy, as both Batman  _and_  Bruce Wayne. In the end, I can't make your decisions for you. I only hope that you will continue to accept me as a part of your city, and, in turn, I will continue to fight for Gotham as the everyday, mundane Bruce Wayne.

"Now, are there any questions?"

* * *

He was falling...thrown through the air like a sack of rocks, hurled into a tank of freezing cold salt water. It rushed into his starved gills, and he could breathe again. He could finally breathe again.

Kaldur'ahm allowed himself to sink, landing the pebbled bottom of the tank with a bubbly  _wuff_. The Atlantian sat up, taking a few moments to regain his composure, before focussing on the clear plexiglass walls of his new prison, and the lab-coated scientists who stood beyond. They were staring at him, like he was an animal. Like a dolphin in a zoo.

Suddenly, letters flashed along the side of the tank, forming a message.

_Swim to the top._

Kaldur shook his head, continuing to let the water rush through his gills. He was better than most Atlantians–he could survive above land for a much longer time than they–but he couldn't deny what he was at heart. He'd almost died out there.

The message disappeared, and a new one appeared.

_I won't ask again._

Kaldur turned away.

Electricity poured from the collar around his neck, frying his sensitive gills, turning the water around him into a deathtrap. He flailed, kicking off from the bottom of the tank, breaking through the surface, and only then did the pain stop.

Kaldur wheezed, his eyes darting around until he spotted a doc standing at the edge of the water, holding a tablet in one hand, the other franticly writing something on its surface with a thin stylus.

"I warned you." The man said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Now...Are you ready to tell us where Atlantis is?"


	3. Reunions

**Chapter 3: Reunions.  
**

The speech had gone well, despite all early hiccups. Dick felt immense relief as he watched Bruce make his way off the stage, coming to rest in his wheelchair in the corner of the room. The man hated the thing, preferring to hobble around assisted by a kind arm, or his sturdy cane, but he couldn't do it for long periods of time. He'd come a long way since the accident, but there was a good chance he would never be able to walk properly again.

Dick was about to go over to him, when a hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned, finding himself looking into the warm smiling face of the last son of Krypton; Clark Kent, Superman.

"Clark!" Dick cried, his face breaking into a smile. "It's good to see you!"

It was hard to ignore the edges of the collar poking from behind the man's blue turtleneck sweater; a constant reminder that even the great Superman hadn't been able to escape the Purge.

"Good to see you as well, Dick." The man replied, shaking Dick's hand. "I was just about to go over and see Bruce. That was a very good speech he gave up there."

"How'd you know about all this?" The former boy wonder asked.

"Alfred sent invitations. He thought that Bruce could use some company. And you as well."

It was then that Dick spotted Connor standing behind the man of steel, sporting a similar red sweater, and a black blazer. Connor was okay. He'd made it out

"We've been staying at my mother's place in Kansas." Clark continued.

"It took two busses and a train ride to get here." Connor scoffed.

"I don't like planes." The man of steel admonished. "I've caught too many of them falling out of the sky to trust their design."

Dick chuckled as Connor rolled his eyes.

Still at odds with each other, but learning. They were the last two Kryptonians on earth–even if Connor was artificial–once gifted with immense power, now reduced to human strengths and weaknesses. This world had forced them together, forced them to reconcile their differences, their prejudices...their fears.

They'd be alright.

"You two catch up." Clark said, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "I'm going to go see Bruce."

With that, the former Superman made his way through the crowd, apologizing and excusing himself as he went; always the polite boy scout. When he made it to Bruce's wheelchair, Dick saw his mentor's face light up like it hadn't in months. They'd been friends a long time, two of the most prominent figures in the country, the founders of the Justice League. They had trusted each other with their weaknesses, with their families, and, as the two men shook hands and greeted each other after so long, Dick knew that Alfred had made the right decision to invite Clark unannounced.

"He really needs those glasses now." Connor said, dragging Dick back into the present.

"What?" The other boy asked.

"Clark. He's got something wrong with his eyes."

"Are  _you_  okay?"

Connor shrugged.

"I squint."

There were a few beats of awkward silence before the clone continued.

"Speaking of glasses, it's weird seeing your face without them."

"Oh yeah." Dick replied with his own shrug. "Secret identities don't really mean much anymore. You can call me Dick instead of Robin now."

Connor raised an eyebrow.

"You'd prefer Dick over Robin?"

The former boy wonder glared at him.

The two started walking around the ballroom, snagging h'orderves and small glasses of sparkling cider as they went. After a while, Connor starting talking about how things were going on the farm, how he kind of enjoyed the tedious labor and the backbreaking exertion, how he loved Mrs. Kent's pies, and all of the other homegrown food she served.

"It gives me something to do." He said. "Something to get out all of my energy and frustration. It just wish I knew where Wolf was."

"Maybe he'll turn up one day." Dick replied.

Connor grunted, swallowing another cucumber sandwich whole, his eyes roving over the crowd around them.

"Lot of famous people here tonight." The clone said.

"They're all vultures." Dick scoffed. "They practically begged for invitations just so they could be seen here, telling reporters that they knew Bruce was the Batman the whole time, pretending to be his best friend–"

"But, they never knew Bruce Wayne at all." Connor finished.

"Not really." Dick replied, his eyes scanning the room.

"I recognize a lot of faces here, but who's that guy?" Connor asked, pointing to one of the tables there along the wall. There sat a sickly-looking man in a wheelchair, his hair patchy and unkempt, his eyes hollow in his skull. Beside him was a dark-haired boy, scrutinizing his surroundings with an icy-eyed glare. Dick recognized the man instantly, his gut twisting in guilt and shame.

"That's Mr. Drake." Dick said. "Head of Drake Industries."

"Guy looks like a corpse." Connor grumbled.

"He had an accident in Haiti a while ago." Dick replied, lowering his voice. "Batman was there...his wife didn't make it, and he ended up like that. He can't walk, can't move very well. I'm guessing that's his son with him."

Connor's eyes narrowed, and his frown deepened. Dick flinched as the clone rested a heavy hand on his shoulder–he was still abnormally strong, even without his powers–and whispered in his ear, "Look at the pin on the kid's lapel. Look familiar to you?"

The former boy wonder tried to catch a glimpse without seeming too suspicious, quickly locating the small silver piece of metal fastened to the Drake heir's jacket.

It was a tiny half moon superimposed over an engraving of the earth...

For a moment Dick could only stare, before the memories flooded back; that same symbol emblazoned on the sides of the vans, on the labcoats of all the docs, the breast-pockets of the higher-ups.

_Eclipse._

"Let's go." Dick said, turning on his heel. "I gotta get out of here for a moment."

Connor followed without question, the two milling through the crowd, out of the ballroom, deeper and deeper into the mansion. Dick led them to his private study, slipped inside, and locked the door behind them. It was only then that he realized his hands were trembling, that he was shaking as the memories continued to replay themselves over and over in his head. He'd been doing so good...

"Do you think it's a coincidence?" The boy asked, turning to his friend. "Do you think that...he just happens to be an agent who came here with his father? God. He's younger than me."

"I don't know." Connor replied, crossing his arms. "But I don't like it.

"Bruce and I haven't done anything wrong." Dick continued. "This is the last thing he needs–"

"I guess this isn't the best place for me to be then?"

Dick jumped, his eyes turning to the sofa in the center of the room. A girl materialized there, wearing a beautiful white dress, her dark hair held up in a bun. He'd never seen her before, but her voice...

"M'gann!"

The girl smiled, her features changing, skin darkening until it was a pale shade of green–martian green–her hair falling from its bun to her shoulders, a bright, natural, red.

Connor's jaw was hanging open, his eyes wide and confused.

"M'gann..." He murmured. The martian smiled, getting to her feet, embracing her boyfriend, falling into his arms as he returned the gesture.

"I was sure they'd gotten you." Connor said.

"Not yet." M'gann replied, shaking her head. "My uncle and I have been trying to find a way back home, but without the zeta beams, it's almost impossible."

"Is J'onn downstairs?" Dick asked as the couple parted.

M'gann nodded.

"Last I saw him, he was going to talk to Clark and Bruce."

"You're both in danger." Dick said "That kid down there might be planted to find the ones who got away."

"They're not kind to non-humans, M'gann." Connor whispered, still holding the martian's hand. "Clark and I...were very lucky to get out. But, there's been no word of Kaldur or Aquaman. Not even any of the Lanterns."

M'gann's face fell, her hand falling from her boyfriend's.

"What about Gar?"

There was only silence.

"I might have seen him in the Batcave once." Dick whispered. "But, if it was him, he didn't stick around."

M'gann sniffed, wiping away the tears forming in her eyes.

"I promised I'd take care of him." She said. "It's my fault he's like this."

"No." Connor replied. "It's Eclipse's fault for enacting the Purge. We were fine as we were, metahumans, and aliens, Atlantians, Amazonians, and humans. They're trying to punish us for existing." The boy scoffed, shaking his head. "And humans are the reason I exist in the first place."

There were times when Dick felt a rift between himself and his non-human friends. He'd never really been a superhero, not like them. He was human, plain and simple, and that was why he'd gotten off easy. Wally had told him, in one of the few moments when he was awake and speaking, what had been done to him in the compound; every inhibitor collar had to be specially designed for the wearer's powers, or something might slip through the cracks. He'd been starved, run ragged, subjected to test after test after test, needles, wires, nodes, bright lights and metal instruments. Connor must have been through the same thing.

Dick couldn't even imagine.

"I don't want to leave." M'gann continued, wiping her eyes again. "My uncle's plan is to go overseas, but so many of my friends are missing. I want to know what's happened to them."

"I know where some of them are." Dick replied. "Like Artemis. We go to school together and she's on the archery team. Zatara was freed from Dr. Fate during the purge. He's back to doing a show with Zatanna. Wally's upstairs but–"

"Can I see him?" M'gann asked. "J'onn and I don't know when we're leaving. I want to say goodbye to as many people as I can."

"I didn't know Wally was here." Connor murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"

"He's in really bad shape, you guys." Dick said, holding his hands out imploringly. "Between Eclipse and Barry being missing–

"What about his parents?" The clone demanded.

Dick hung his head.

"They didn't want him..."

* * *

" _If you think I'm going down without a fight, you have another thing coming."_

Roy Harper slowly came to, enveloped in blankets, his limbs and muscles aching from unremembered exertion. The young man blinked a few times, his eyes darting to the open window beside him, the skyline of Star City outlined by the setting sun.

He was back in Oliver's mansion...but...he hadn't lived there for years, choosing instead to slum it in cheap motels and apartments. For the longest time, he'd been his own man, his own person.

What had happened?

" _I'm not going to let you drag me off. You think no one's noticed what's going on?"_

_What's happening to the heroes?_


	4. Imposter

**Chapter 4: Impostor.**

Wally wasn't sure who he was looking at; the stranger staring back at him from inside the mirror, with the sunken-in eyes, and the long greasy hair...with the collar locked around his neck like a vice. This new person, it couldn't be him. He didn't look so tired, so defeated.

But it was...

Wally turned on the hot water, letting it run for a moment, before cupping his hands and dousing his face. He then carded damp fingers through his unruly hair, trying to tame it back. He'd never let it get so long before...It wasn't him. It wasn't Wally West. It was some other person, a phantom self he'd pretended to be these past months.

He just wanted to feel like himself again.

There was a knock at the door and Wally quickly dried his face, rushing to answer it–too slow, not nearly fast as he should have been–pulling it slightly open. He didn't relax until he saw Dick on the other side, still dressed in his finest. He must have come straight from the gala.

"Hey, Wally." The former boy wonder said with a familiar crooked smile. "Good to see that you're awake."

"Couldn't sleep." Wally mumbled, pushing the door open a bit so his friend could come inside.

"I can get you some little sandwiches if you'd like. They're pretty good."

"Nah. I just ate."

He didn't miss Dick's eyes snapping to the untouched plate of food resting on the bedside table. Jeez. Nothing got past him. Just like the bat.

Dick walked further into the room, and flipped on the light. Wally would have been lying if he said he didn't flinch.

"There's someone here to see you."

"Who?" Wally asked. No. Demanded, his fists clenching at his sides. Who would be coming to see him at such a late hour?

Could it be–

* * *

" _Wally. You have to run."_

_Half awake and confused, throwing on clothes in the dead of night, Wally stumbled as his uncle led him to the back door._

" _They're coming for us."_

_Wally grabbed the man's sleeve, staring at him, open-mouthed._

" _Uncle Barry, what–"_

" _Just run. And don't stop."_

_Heart pounding in his chest, the younger speedster shook his head. He wasn't going to leave without his uncle. No way._

" _I can't leave Iris behind."_

" _They won't go after her she's–"_

" _Pregnant."_

" _How can they know that?" Wally demanded, tugging on his uncle's sleeve. "They won't hurt her, come on!"_

_The speedster stumbled as his uncle yanked his arm out of his grasp._

" _Wally–"_

" _You're not listening to me!"_

* * *

"Wally?"

No. It wasn't his uncle...but it was still someone he thought he'd lost...someone he missed.

During the purge, so many heroes had fallen off the map, and the former speedster had found himself wondering what had happened to them–to the Justice League members who were still missing, to his own friends and teammates–the purge had scattered them into the wind. Some reemerged, but, as he had languished in his cell back at the compound, he had often found himself wondering; how many had died trying to run? How many of his friends would he never see again?

Would he even make it out himself?

Now, as he saw Miss Martian standing in the doorway, he could only feel relief. She was here with them, beautiful and radiant and safe. She was safe.

But then...he saw that her eyes were wide; that she had a hand raised to her mouth, a shocked gesture...and he remembered.

He wasn't the Wally she knew. He was someone else, someone that the purge had forced him to become, hiding behind bruises and scruffy hair.

"You told her...didn't you?" The former speedster spat, turning to Dick.

"She needed to know." Dick murmured. " _They_  needed to know."

"They?" Wally began, before Connor joined M'gann at the door, his face as impassive as ever. Wally suddenly wanted to hide, to bury his face in his hands, if only to mask the bruises still evident on his skin. He'd never told anyone about his situation at home...he'd never had to before, not with his super healing, but now, he was reduced to being like everyone else. No more hiding. No more secrets. And, in a world without heroes, they really only had each other to trust.

"I'm glad you're both okay." Wally murmured, forcing a smile. He really was, despite the circumstances...despite how they were looking at him. Their little team was almost whole again.

"When Dick said you were up here," M'gann began, taking a few steps further into the room, "I had to come see you. I had to come say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

M'gann nodded, a hand reaching up to her neck...her neck adorned with only a simple gold chain...no collar in sight.

"They didn't get you." He said, his voice filled with awe. If M'gann had managed to escape the Purge...who else had? Maybe there was still hope for Kaldur, for Hal, for his aunt and uncle. Maybe they'd managed to hide themselves all this time.

Why couldn't he have done the same?

"J'onn and I are headed overseas. There's rumors of a rocket in Russia that can get us back to Mars."

"Is there anyone else still out there?" Wally asked. He had to. If he didn't, he might never find out where Barry was...

M'gann shook her head.

"I haven't found anyone who didn't have one of those collars."

Wally sighed, his eyes falling to the floor.

He should have known.

"But, I did meet Jay Garrick and his wife." M'gann said with a small smile. "They wanted to know how you were."

"Jay?"

He remembered the first time he'd met Jay, the oldest of the speedsters, the hero who refused to hide behind a mask, who found his inspiration in the Roman god Mercury. Despite how his powers had been caused by latent genes instead of chemicals, Jay had still been the leader of their little group, retired though he claimed to be.

Wally hadn't thought to contact him...

Hadn't thought about it once.

* * *

There was no feeling like it; like running along the rooftops, the wind in his hair, feeling alive and young and  _free_  for the first time in his life. For a moment, he wasn't some street kid. He wasn't an orphan. He could be whoever he wanted to be: a hero, a vigilante, a savior to the others like him who were victims of circumstance. Putting on the mask and the cape, he could slip into the shoes of one of the fallen heroes, specifically a fallen sidekick, one he'd looked up to his entire life...and one of the faces he had prayed to see as he held his mother's cooling body in his arms.

But, it had happened after the time of heroes, and this particular sidekick, like his mentor, had given up their crusade, leaving justice unserved, leaving the people of Gotham unprotected, vulnerable.

No.

Gotham needed a hero. Without someone to stop it, crime would only spread, like a disease. It would make its way through the entire city, until it was infected, until the sickness had seeped in straight to the core.

Jason Todd wouldn't let that happen.

 _Robin_  wouldn't let that happen.

He wasn't an acrobat, not by a long shot, but he was still graceful enough; quick on his feet, young, agile. He'd been practicing. Empty lots and abandoned warehouses were his training grounds. He'd picked fights, made contacts, and snatched necessary tools right from beneath gangster's noses. No guns though. As cowardly as he thought the bat was, he would uphold his ideals. Guns were dirty things, and death too easy a punishment for the scum of the earth. Jason preferred breaking noses, bones, skulls. He'd traded in Robin's shoes for a pair of steel-toed boots. But, the rest of the outfit was accurate enough. As was his hair. He'd managed to snag a box of cheap black die so he could look the part. Gone was the bright red. The dark color suited him, made him look older and more serious. And wasn't that what he wanted?

There was a scream below, and Jason dropped, landing on a nearby fire escape, pulling a club from his belt. Two thugs, harassing a young woman. Not in Gotham. Not while he was around.

Fighting had come natural to him, as simple as breathing. A kick to one man's ribs sent him reeling. The other got his skull cracked against a wall. The entire altercation took only seconds, but left Jason's heart pumping, adrenaline running through his veins.

"Y-you're Robin, right?" The lady asked, visibly shaking. Jason nodded, before fishing out one of his new grappling hooks–courtesy of a now defunct street gang–and flew away, taking to the rooftops once more.

There was no law that said that Robin had to be Dick Grayson.  _He_  could be Robin too.

He'd be a better Robin than that kid ever was.

* * *

Tim Drake surveyed the room with cold eyes, taking in the multitude of familiar faces; celebrities, politicians. Bruce had known a great deal of influential people in his day. Hard to believe that he had deceived them all. And yet, they seemed to be all too forgiving. Was it because of his money, his fame? Was it because he was broken, a shell of his former self? If it was because the people truly forgave him, Tim had no faith in their judgement. Bruce Wayne did not regret being Batman. He did not regret the things he did, or what he failed to do. If he wasn't confined to that chair, he might never have accepted civilian life. It wasn't in his nature. He was more bat than man.

Tim started as his phone rang in his pocket. Excusing himself from his father's side, the boy slunk off, answering the phone as he went, noting that it was a call from his boss. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. News from Eclipse was never good.

"Sir?" Tim asked, leaning against a wall. He listened for a moment, eyes widening when he heard what his superior had to say.

"No, sir. I don't see Grayson anywhere."

He scanned the room again, searching for the familiar face of Richard Grayson, Bruce's ward, and the former Robin. Nothing. He wasn't by Bruce's side. He wasn't with any of the man's close friends. He was gone.

"He's not here."

Tim continued to listen, his grip on the phone tightening, his eyes narrowing.

"And he eluded you?"

...

"Yes. Send a truck. He might have returned by now, and if not, we'll be ready."

With that, Tim hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket, returning to the table where he left his father.

"It's time for you to go home." He said, wheeling the man toward the door. "Things are about to get interesting here."


	5. Weakness

**Chapter 5:** **Weakness.**

Jim Gordon knew many things about Eclipse.

They didn't ask for surrender. They didn't try and bargain. They came, and they took, leaving destruction and devastation in their wake. Bruce Wayne was evidence enough of that, thrown from a second story window before being dragged back to their compound. There were other heroes who had suffered similar fates; bullet wounds, burns from explosions and arson, broken backs and shattered bones...and that poor kid in Star City who had had his arm sliced clean off. There was nothing that they wouldn't do to bring their warped justice to light. Nothing.

So, when an Eclipse SWAT team stormed into Wayne manor, Jim's first reaction was to grab his daughter and run. He didn't want her anywhere near those monsters. But, Bruce was his friend...Batman had been as well. What kind of man would he be if he abandoned him to the scum who'd shattered his leg? Who had grounded him?

"Stay here, Barbara." The man whispered in his daughter's ear, his hand urgently gripping her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" She asked, her eyes wide in fear.

"I'm going to make sure Bruce is alright. Just stay here."

It was all Gordon could do to reach Wayne before the soldiers closed their circle around him. The man was struggling in his wheelchair, Clark Kent–the former Superman–holding him back, refusing to let him stand.

"You'll hurt yourself." Clark murmured. "Come on, Bruce."

Jim put himself between the former heroes and the Eclipse soldiers, squaring his shoulders, looking them right in their visored eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded. "I am the police commissioner in this city, and I'll be  _damned_  if you try to take this man without my permission."

"We're not here for him." One of the soldiers said; the leader, denoted by the red armor he wore. A modern day redcoat.

"We're looking for Richard Grayson."

Jim heard Bruce give a strangled cry behind him, but refused to turn away from the enemy. He had to stand his ground. He refused to show weakness in front of the organization that had undermined his authority again and again. Without Batman, it was  _his_  duty to step up and protect the city, to protect its people.

And it was his duty to protect Bruce Wayne and his young ward.

"What do you want with him?" Gordon growled.

The redcoat reached into his belt, taking out a small tablet screen, playing through a grainy recording of a figure running along Gotham's signature skyline. Jim squinted at it–his eyes weren't as good as they used to be–but the runner was unmistakable. A young man, dressed in red and yellow, like a beacon in the night, black hair swept back by the wind. Gordon felt his stomach drop.

"It could be an impostor."

"Jim, let me see it." Bruce demanded. When Jim hesitated, he asked again, his voice cracking with barely restrained fear.

Gordon snatched the tablet from the soldier's hand, and gave it to Bruce, turning away before he could see the man's reaction. Dick was like a son to him. Despite his more than questionable parenting techniques, Bruce had always taken care of the boy, raised him as his own. Sent him to the best school, made sure he didn't want for anything. After Bruce returned to the city, when protestors swarmed his gates, demanding that he lose custody, Richard had stayed by his side, forever loyal, helping Bruce to get back on his feet.

Jim feared that, without Grayson, Wayne would fall apart.

"Let me look." Clark said, his voice soft as he pulled the tablet from Bruce's grip. There was a pause as the former man of steel watched the footage, followed by a loud crunch as he dropped the device, and crushed it beneath his shoe.

"The time signature is all wrong." Clark growled. "He was here when that footage was taken."

"Do you have proof?"

"He was with me. We were watching Mr. Wayne's speech."

The redcoat shook his head.

"Do you have  _recorded_ proof? Your word doesn't mean much, Mr. Kent."

"One of the news stations might have gotten footage of him in the crowd." Alfred interjected, wringing his hands. "If you simply review it, I'm sure we can clear up this misunderstanding.

"I'm on a tight schedule, Jeeves."

"That's Mr. Pennyworth, to you, young man." The butler snapped, his entire countenance shifting. "What about his tracking anklet? Aren't they meant to prevent incidents like this?"

The redcoat scoffed.

"Forgive me,  _Mr. Pennyworth_ , but my superior doesn't trust the data. Richard Grayson is an experienced hacker. It could be tampered with."

"So, you would convict an young man without significant proof?" Alfred spat. "You should be ashamed–"

In one swift, fluid movement, the redcoat pulled his rifle from the sling across his back, pressing the barrel against the butler's throat, cold metal digging into thin flesh. There was no telling what kind of rounds the thing was packing; harmless tranqs, or deadly bullets. Alfred swallowed thickly, his eyes moving to the ceiling as Bruce shouted at the soldiers.

"Eclipse makes its own law,  _Jeeves_ " Redcoat hissed. "The thing is, we need to take Grayson in for questioning. So. Where is he, because–so help me–if you're stalling, you'll live to regret it."

* * *

Richard wasn't sure when it happened, but eventually, the remnants of Young Justice ended up sitting on Wally's bed, sharing stories about their new lives, both the good and the bad. When it came to be Dick's turn, he told them about the circus, about what had happened to his parents when he was little. He told them about living with Bruce, how he'd begged to be Robin, how he'd been driven by a blind need for revenge. How he'd managed overcome that.

Around his team, he'd never been Dick Grayson, only Robin, the boy wonder, Batman's young sidekick. The Purge had given him back his personal identity, allowed him to be himself again. He wouldn't end up like Bruce Wayne, who was really only a facade, a public face. Bruce had long ago lost who he was, slipping into Batman's persona...

Dick never wanted that to happen to him.

"I'm the closest Bruce has to an heir." The boy continued. "I'll probably end up going to a good college nearby, and then, I'll take over when he needs me to. That was always the plan anyways, even when we were still Batman and Robin."

It was amazing how much free time he had now that he wasn't a vigilante. What did kids  _do_  with all their extra time? Sports? Alfred had attempted to get him to try out for gymnastics, but he wasn't sure if it'd be fair for the other kids. Maybe he would, if he got bored enough, but he wasn't quite there yet.

"Hey, isn't Haley's Circus going to be back in town soon?" M'gann asked."Do you ever go see them when they're here?"

"They always give me front row tickets." Dick replied with a grin. "Sometimes I go, sometimes I don't. Robin always took up a lot of my time."

"You ever think of going back there?" Connor asked. "Y'know. For good?"

"Sometimes." Dick replied with a shrug.

Going back would be so easy.

It would be so easy to fall into that routine again, to swing on the trapeze, to fly, just like his parents had, to forget Robin and Batman, to forget Gotham and its endless crime and corruption.

It would be so easy.

But no...

"I've got a responsibility to Bruce. He's always been there for me. I'm not going to leave him now."

Bruce was just starting to get better.

Suddenly M'gann flinched, her eyes widening as she reached a hand up to her temple. The three boys exchanged worried glances. It was a gesture they knew all too well. Someone was contacting her...and it didn't look like the news was good.

"We've got to get out of here." The Martian said with a harsh whisper, pushing away from Connor and shifting back into her human disguise.

"What's going on?" Wally asked, his voice quiet and fearful.

"J'onn says that there are Eclipse agents downstairs." M'gann replied. "They're headed this way...and they're looking for Robin. They're going to take him away."

And, just like that, Dick's world fell apart.

* * *

Roy could only stare at the bandages...

He couldn't believe it.

His own father hadn't left him a legacy, but Brave Bow had. Archery. He remembered whittling his own arrows out of fallen branches, fletching them with the sleek black crow feathers he'd found in the grasslands. The arrows were crooked, and they didn't fly very well, but Brave Bow had taught him how to improve, and improve he had. By the time he had joined up with Green Arrow, they were almost equal in skill.

But now...all that was gone.

"You were running from them." Oliver said, sitting by his bedside as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. "Eclipse. Do you remember Eclipse?"

Roy shook his head.

Oliver sighed.

"They put an end to superheroes." He continued. "We're all just civilians now."

"Why did they take my arm?" Roy asked, his voice breaking.

_Why did they take my archery away?_

"You fought back, and they got violent. They told me that the arm was an accident..."

"And do you believe them?"

Oliver fell to silence.

 


	6. Kick a Man while He's Down

**Chapter 6:** **Kick a Man While He's Down.**

"What are you going to do?"

Dick felt numb all over. He couldn't see, couldn't hear anything around him, save for the rapid beating of his heart. He knew that he was panicking–he'd felt it before–but he couldn't snap out of it.

He just wanted it all to stop.

"I didn't do anything." He whispered, barely finding his voice. "I haven't broken any of their rules. They shouldn't be here."

"Well, they are." Connor snapped. "And now, M'gann's in danger."

"Dick's in danger too!" Wally cried. "They're gonna take him away. What if he doesn't come back out?"

"Dick's human. He'll be fine."

"We can get out the window." M'gann said, reaching forward to take his arm. "If I fly really fast–"

Dick gently pushed her away, getting to his feet, turning his eyes to the door.

"No. No." He said shaking his head as his stomach rolled. "I have to go with them. If I don't..."

_Something might happen to Bruce._

Bruce had worked so hard for this night. It had been a big step for him, a step towards re-assimilating himself into society, a step closer to being the man he used to be. Why did this have to happen now? Whatever he'd done, why did it have to catch up to him tonight?

Fate had been more than cruel to them lately.

"Dick–"

"M'gann, you should get out of here. There's no reason for you to get taken in too."

"So, I'm just supposed to go?" The Martian demanded. "Leave all of you guys to deal with these creeps yourselves? We're a team."

"We  _were_ a team." Dick corrected. "You need to get back to Mars with your uncle. You need to get home."

He hated the disappointed look on her face, hated the anger he saw simmering just beneath the surface, but he couldn't let her get taken just because of him.

Teammates didn't let other teammates get hurt.

"They're coming, M'gann." He hissed. "Please. Go."

She couldn't be here when the soldiers arrived. She couldn't go to the compound. She'd never survive without her powers. She'd revert back to her normal form, and they'd never let go. They'd hold onto her like all the other aliens, like all the meta-humans who looked a little different, who didn't fit into their perfect image of society.

The thought made his blood boil.

"Bye, Connor, M'gann...Wally." He said, one hand on the door, trying to ignore the devastated look on his best friend's face. Wally was going to fall apart without him. He knew it. The kid was barely put together as it was.

"Take care of Bruce and Alfred for me, okay Wally?"

The former speedster nodded, but he was shaking.

He was going to fall apart.

Dick wanted to fall apart too.

He left his friends without another word, stepping into the hallway, eyes roving over the familiar paintings and antiques lining its walls. He walked silently down the carpeted walk, dread weighing heavily in his gut, feeling confused, and scared, but still frighteningly numb. He hadn't done anything. He'd put his vigilante days behind him the moment he was released, locking his costume away in the batcave with the rest of Bruce's relics, moving on to take his place as the man's son and part-time caretaker. He'd kept his head down, stayed off the streets. He'd been good.

He'd been lucky.

When he came to his bedroom, Dick paused, staring deeply into the inky back. He found his own face staring back at him from the printed surface of a "Flying Grayson's" poster; younger, smiling, standing beside his parents and his family on the trapeze. He wished that he was with them now, far away from Gotham and Eclipse, and this fear. Once, he had believed that he'd been spared to avenge them, to take down the criminals and the thugs who would destroy innocents to get what they wanted...

But, he'd been wrong.

His bedroom was the first place they looked; the Eclipse soldiers. They didn't mince words, didn't monologue like any normal villain would. They grabbed his arms, holding him still–not like he was really putting up a fight anyway–while one pressed a square piece of metal to his neck, a computer chip, it looked like, running with complex circuitry and several red wires. Dick yelped as a sharp pain bit into the sensitive flesh of his neck.

It felt like teeth, like the thing was latching onto his skin, like it had a mind of its own.

And then his body was dead weight, falling into the arms of his captors, head lolling as as he tried to regain control. This wasn't right. What was wrong with him? What had they done?

He blinked his eyes–at least he still had control over that–and stared up at the soldier's visored face, pleading silently. What was going on? He would have gone willingly. What was this _thing_?

There were no answers. He was slung over the man's shoulder in a fireman's carry, hanging limp and helpless as they took him away. Trapped inside his body, the panic began to rise, and Dick found himself silently screaming, but no one could hear him...

No one would care.

* * *

He knew that Robin had to go...he knew that there was nothing he could do to stop the soldiers from taking away his  _best friend_. But, as he watched the boy walk further and further down the hallway, straight into the arms of the enemy, Wally wished he could. He wished he was still a speedster. Still meta-human.

He wished he wasn't so helpless.

Behind him, M'gann and Connor said their goodbyes, the martian slipping out the window, flying away, invisible to the people below, filing out of the mansion. When she was gone, Connor continued to stare at the sky, leaving Wally alone, allowing him to contemplate things he shouldn't.

The former speedster took a deep breath, trying to ignore how his heart pumped in his chest; a fast, panicked rhythm.

And then the soldiers arrived.

He knew that he should just let it happen. Nothing good would come of fighting back. Didn't he know better? It'd taken a while, but he'd learned. He'd learned that Eclipse wasn't something you could run from. It wasn't something that you could beat.

His palms were sweaty. His breaths rasped in his throat.

They were going to take Dick away.

No.

He couldn't let that happen. Not to his best friend.

"Wally!" Connor shouted as the former speedster tore out of the room, running as fast as his painfully human body would allow. He was quickly out of breath, running on pure adrenaline, but he couldn't stop.

What did he have to lose?

Only his best friend.

He threw himself at the man carrying Robin's limp body– _What had they done to him?_ –trying to remember Black Canary's combat training, managing to throw a punch that broke the soldier's visor. It was a small victory though as the man smacked him away like a bug, his armored glove striking his skull with a dull *thwack*.

He fell to the soft carpet, his body dead weight, his eyes rolling in his head as black edged around his vision. He wasn't what he once was; he wasn't fast, and he definitely wasn't strong. He'd lost too much weight. He was malnourished. He couldn't protect his friend.

The soldiers advanced on him, and he cringed, unable to defend himself, entirely at their mercy.

"...Don't..." Wally begged, his voice cracking in his throat. "...please...don't take 'im."

And they laughed.

The boy yelped as a steel-toed boot struck him in the ribs. Then another one. And another one. He tasted metal in his mouth, felt tears in his eyes.

" _So your name's Dick?" Wally asked with a cheeky grin._

" _It's a nickname." The other boy replied. "For Richard."_

" _Well, my name's Wally."_

_Dick smirked, crossing his arms over his chest._

" _I know."_

" _Pfft." The speedster scoffed. "Of course you do._

" _Do you wanna play some Atari?"_

" _Sure."_

* * *

"I wish I could stop them."

Bruce was slumped uselessly in his chair, his eyes downcast and grey, staring at the tiled floor as his guests quickly left him. Soon, the only ones remaining were himself, Alfred, Clark, the commissioner and his daughter; his only remaining friends in this world. The only ones he needed.

Leslie Tompkins arrived moments later, having heard the news. She didn't say a word, instead resting a comforting hand on his shoulder, standing beside him, through everything.

His closest friends, all together in one room...

But...someone was missing.

As Batman, he could have done something. He could have stopped those soldiers in their tracks with no more than a heated glare. As Batman, he could have driven them out of their home, for good this time.

As Batman, he could have saved his son.

But no...

Batman couldn't have done anything either. There wasn't a hero alive who had the power to stand against Eclipse and its forces. Even if he managed to defeat these soldiers–which was impossible in his current state–they would only send more, and more, and more until they had what they wanted, and left devastation in their wake.

"This is all just some misunderstanding, Bruce." Clark murmured. "He'll be home in a week."

Bruce wanted to believe him...but he couldn't. He'd always been cynical, to a fault, but now...

Crime was swallowing up his city; petty  _human_ crime, something he could have easily stopped. Gordon couldn't keep up with it all, though he tried. Eclipse had worked so hard to level the playing field again, as if that could help. The world had needed heroes before, and it would need them again.

But one of those heroes wouldn't be Batman.

* * *

"Hey!" Connor shouted, standing at the end of the hallway, drawing the attention of the scum who were kicking a defenseless Wally.

_What would Superman do?_

Superman would pummel those guys into a pulp. Fly them to the highest mountaintop and leave them there until they froze. He wouldn't let them get away with hurting one of his teammates...friends. Wally was his friend–closest thing to a friend he'd ever had–and he'd be damned if he let these creeps get away with what they were doing.

Sheep. Cowards. Wally'd been kicked enough in his life. It was time for it to stop.

Even without his super strength, Connor was still stronger than average, all the work on the farm keeping up his muscles. He was fit, agile, ready to take down anyone who would dare hurt his friend.

He grabbed the heads of two of the soldiers, smacking them together, throwing them to the ground in a heap. He landed a kick to another's gut, sending him reeling. The fourth was tackled to the ground, his armor pelted with blow after blow after blow from his fists. Connor tossed him aside, like a limp doll.

These weren't anything like the soldiers he'd faced before. These had to be trainees, rookies sent on a simple retrieval mission. There was no way any of these jokers could have taken down a schoolboy, let alone a superhero. Eclipse hadn't expected any trouble.

But, they'd sure gotten it.

Breathing heavily, Connor turned to the last man, the one carrying Robin over his shoulder, the one with the cracked faceplate. The man was in red armor, not the normal black. He was the leader, the brains of the operation.

The man who held the remote–

Connor screamed as the collar around his neck sparked, sending him to the floor. His fingers tried to pry the thing from around his neck, but he couldn't. He never could. He'd tried countless times after they'd released him.

"I should take you in." The soldier spat. "All of you."

The clone glared at him, gritting his teeth as the onslaught of pain continued.

"Go to hell." He snarled.

The voltage increased, and Connor's cries cracked in his throat. He found himself floundering on the carpet, his muscles spasming–

Until it suddenly stopped...and he was panting, sore all over, twitching as his hands clutched numbly at the carpet.

The Eclipse soldiers were gone. Robin was gone.

But, Wally was still there, and he didn't look good.

* * *


	7. Blessing in Disguise

**Chapter 7:** **Blessing in Disguise.**

There were a lot of abandoned places in Gotham; forgotten warehouses, decrepit homes, crumbling apartment complexes left to rot and decay. Jason had taken to staying in one of the latter, holing himself away in the forgotten cellar behind a barricaded and locked door. He survived by using some of the supplies left behind by the building's former owner, taking advantage of the canned food and clothing and various other odds and ends scattered about the place. He'd lost almost everything after his mother died, running away instead of letting himself get taken to the boy's home to be forgotten. To him, run-down Gotham was a haven...

It was his home.

With a sigh, Jason shed his Robin costume, returning it to its hiding place beneath some moth-eaten coats in a once ornate chest. He was exhausted, sore all over; bruised, battered, but his heart was racing, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He'd done so much good that night.

He'd single-handedly stopped robberies, muggings, even a drug bust. If only his mother could see him now...maybe she wouldn't think he was worthless anymore.

Maybe she'd still be alive.

Jason forced those thoughts away. He couldn't think like that. Not anymore. He was doing this for  _her_ , to make sure that no one had to go through the pain he had, so no one had to be alone. He was stronger than all of his fears. He was Robin: The Boy Wonder.

He was tired.

The boy flopped down on a broken mattress, pulling a large fur coat over his body in an attempt to stave off the cold. There was no heat, no electricity. His only source of light was a small flickering lantern whose bulb threatened to go out at any moment. It wasn't ideal, not by a long shot, but he would never be Dick Grayson. He would never be lucky enough to earn the pity of a rich man, to be taken in as his son. He would make due with what he had, and he'd be better for it.

He'd be a better Robin than Dick Grayson ever was.

* * *

To tell the truth, the Purge had been a blessing in disguise.

_Focus. Pull back on the string, aim for the target. Feel the arrow, plastic, cheap and slightly flawed, rest against the string._

_Take a deep breath._

_Let everything go._

And she did.

The arrow hit the center of the target with a soft *thickt*, burying itself deep. Artemis let out a soft sigh, reaching back to pull another from her quiver.

_Focus. Pull Back. Release._

*thickt*

Another bullseye.

Yes. The Purge had been good for her. She knew that it was  _wrong–so so_ _ **wrong**_ –to think of it like that...but it was true. It'd gotten her dad off the streets, Jade had reformed, and finally, their little family was coming together again. Why  _wouldn_ 't she think of it as a good thing? Because of how the heroes suffered?

_Because of how your_ _**friends** _ _suffered?_

She wasn't meta; not even close. Expertly trained, yes, but meta? No. Shooting arrows wasn't a superpower. It was a way to impress colleges, and ever since the purge, she'd had plenty of time to hone her skills, to study, to push herself to be successful. Superheroing wasn't a career. You didn't get paid for it. The Purge had put her back on track.

Another arrow, another bullseye.

*thickt*

*thickt*

"You're really going to wipe the floor at nationals."

Artemis paused, spotting the police commissioner's daughter out of the corner of her eye, standing at the edge of the range, book bag slung over her shoulder.

With a soft huff, the archer turned back to the target, readying another arrow.

She'd never talked to Barbara Gordon before. They were in separate grades, they had separate groups of friends, came from separate social classes, but everyone knew who she was. No one touched Barbara Gordon...not because her father was with the police, but because she was well-versed in many forms of martial arts, right alongside her gymnastics. Artemis had to hand it to her.

She was tough.

But, the archer wasn't in the mood for talking. Practice allowed her to get her mind off of everything. It allowed her to forget that she was relatively free while the rest of her friends wandered around hobbled by collars, nursing permanent injuries, or rotting away in that awful godforsaken compound–

Another arrow flew.

It missed.

"Look, I know we were never friends." Barbara continued, taking a few steps closer, her polished shoes crunching over the turf. "But, I know that you knew Robin...Dick Grayson. I know that you were his teammate."

Artemis tried to reach for another arrow, only to come up short, her hands grasping at air.

No more distractions.

"Yeah, so?" She demanded, pulling the quiver from her back.

Barbara frowned.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear about what happened."

The archer paused, her fingers digging into the quiver's worn leather strap.

Of course she'd heard. It'd been all over the news.

The sudden raid at Wayne Manor, Dick Grayson hauled out of the building by Eclipse goons, his supposed return to vigilanteism; she'd seen it replayed again and again and again, had the story retold by gossipy classmates, had teachers attempt to console them about the incident, but the whole thing just didn't sit right with her. Robin wasn't stupid. He was one of the smartest people she knew, trained by the Dark Knight himself. Why would he do something so rash, so foolish, so... _pointless?_

"He knew the conditions." Artemis continued, plucking her arrows from the target, carefully slipping them back into the quiver. "It was the same for all of us, non-metas. They couldn't get rid of our abilities, so they gave us an ultimatum: 'Never go back to being a hero, or we'll come for you again'."

_And we'll cut off your arm, or burn out your eyes. We'll make it so you can never shoot an arrow again. Just like Red Arrow. Just like Roy Harper._

Artemis flinched as a hand rested on her arm, her eyes darting up to see Barbara standing beside her, looking worried. She realized that she was shaking, that she'd dropped her arrows.

"Let me help." Barbara offered.

"No. No, I've got it." The archer replied, trying to keep her voice steady. She hastily scooped up the fallen arrows, holding them in her fist.

She didn't like showing weakness in front of people...it wasn't like her...she'd never been weak before...

"Hey, I know that some awful stuff happened to you guys." Barbara continued, her blue eyes wide.

Artemis scoffed.

"That's an understatement."

The other girl frowned, her previously innocent face growing dark, showcasing how dangerous she could really be.

"I didn't come here to try and sympathize." She snapped. "I just came to tell you that you shouldn't have broken off all contact with your friends. Some of them needed you."

"Robin...Dick, doesn't need me." Artemis huffed. "Kid can take care of himself."

"Not Dick. Wally."

The archer paused again, her heart stuttering in her chest.

"Wally?"

* * *

He was nestled in stark white sheets, eyes closed tight as he slept, his face dotted with yellowed bruises. He was thin...no starved, bones sticking out from pale, translucent skin.

And he was still.

Wally had always been filled with so much energy...so much life, and...Eclipse had sucked it right out of him, leaving behind this withered husk of a human being. It wasn't fair...

Artemis took a seat in a chair by his bedside, gently taking his hand in hers, careful of the IV and the wires hooking him up to the monitors. His skin was cold and clammy.

"He's going to be fine, Miss Artemis, you shouldn't worry."

Alfred, Bruce Wayne's personal butler, was standing across from her, checking the IV, looking at the readings.

"He merely has a couple of cracked ribs. I can assure you, he's been through worse."

"But, he could always heal it right away." Artemis replied. "And he can't anymore."

Alfred nodded solemnly.

"It will take a few months, but he should make a full recovery."

"When is he going to wake up?"

Wally's breathing was troubled, his face contorted in pain. She wanted him to wake up so he could see that she'd really been there, that she still cared about him.

"He's on some strong painkillers right now, Miss. I can call you when he wakes up, if you wish to leave."

Artemis shook her head.

"I'm going to sit here for a little while longer."

Alfred gave a slight nod, turning and walking from the room.

* * *

The first few days, Bruce sat in Richard's bedroom, slumped in his wheelchair, staring out the window, as if his diligence alone could bring back his missing son.

Alfred didn't protest his actions; delivering his meals, taking care of all business, and even pulling up a chair to keep the man company through the silence. Bruce was like a son to him, and to see the lad in such pain...after everything that had happened to him...it was heartbreaking. He'd already gone through this before, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Bruce had never recovered from the loss of his parents. How on earth would he cope with losing Dick? Without any form of outlet, would his anger simmer and grow, or would be continue to be the quiet broken man he had been of late?

For now, he was quiet and broken, confined to the wheelchair that, only a few nights prior, he had protested.

"I'm sure he'll return, Master Bruce." Alfred whispered when the silence became too great. After a few moments, Bruce turned to him, solemnly shaking his head.

"If he was coming back, he would have returned by now, Alfred." He said. "There was proof of his innocence on the news tapes. If they haven't let him go...they aren't going to."

Alfred sighed, staring out the window at the setting sun.

"I wish you would stop thinking so logically, sir."

_It truly is heartbreaking._


	8. Out of Luck

**Chapter 8: Out of Luck.**

Awake, but immobile, seeing, hearing, feeling everything around him, trapped in his mind as his body was carried deeper and deeper into the compound. Slung over one of the guard's shoulders, Dick could only catch glimpses of the concrete floor below him, the blood rushing to his head, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. At least, if he passed out, he wouldn't have to think about this anymore. He could drift off into his mind, instead of being a prisoner in his own skin.

The guard stopped, and Dick heard a door whoosh open. Everything suddenly smelled too sterile and clean. It burned his nostrils and seared his throat.

Then, he was being dumped unceremoniously onto a thin cot, his face buried in the stiff white sheets. He felt fingers at the back of his neck, pulling on the chip imbedded into the tender skin there. A few tugs was all it took, and the thing was free. Movement and speech came back to Dick in a wave, and he groaned, hands grasping at the sheets as he attempted to push himself up.

The solider behind him began reciting the rules, but he'd heard them all before. He knew not to make noise, he knew when to turn off the lights at night, he knew to eat all of the food offered to him. Dick leaned against the maddeningly white wall behind him, skull hitting the concrete with a dull thunk. This cell was the same as his last, 5x8 feet, with a toilet and a shower crammed into the back corners. Beside him, on the small cot, there were plain white clothes sealed in plastic rap. Numbly, the boy reached for them, pulling them from their confines, tossing the packaging aside. The fabric was cheap, scratchy. It didn't feel like cotton, and it was stiff.

Same as last time.

The soldier finished listing the rules, and ordered him to strip out of his now rumpled suit, turning away as he did so, at least showing him a little decency. Dick pulled at the bow-tie around his neck, unfastening it before moving on to his jacket and shirt, chucking each piece of the ensemble to the floor in a heap. It was hard to believe that, only a few hours before, he had been back at the mansion, listening to Bruce's speech, listening to the man find some of his old strength again.

_I'm not going to leave you Bruce._

Dick didn't realize that he was crying at first. He pulled on his new clothes with quaking hands, feeling his face grow hot as he watched the soldier carelessly scoop up his suit in his arms.

" _Looks like you've gone through another growth spurt. It's been a while since we've gone shopping, hasn't it?"_

Bruce.

He had to hope that he would get out of this. He'd been lucky before...so lucky before. He just had to keep his head up. They'd find out that he wasn't guilty. They would.

Wouldn't they?

* * *

"Hey. Look who's up and moving."

Wally turned to the door, a small smile curling his lips as he saw Artemis there, holding two styrofoam cups in her hands.

"Yeah. You know me." The former speedster said. "Can't stay still for long. Also, Alfred made me take a shower."

"You  _were_  starting to reek."

Wally laughed, but then grimaced, drawing a hand to his bruised ribs. It'd been a long time since he'd felt pain like this, a lingering, constant pain that only got better bit by bit. He looked up, seeing worry on Artemis' face.

"Is that getting  _any_  better?" She asked.

"Yeah. Yeah it is." Wally replied, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, exhausted. "I'm just not used to this."

Artemis frowned, taking a few steps into the room, holding out one of the styrofoam cups. Wally stared at it for a moment, the aroma of bitter coffee reaching his nostrils, his stomach curling in on itself with distaste.

"I thought you might like some of this." The girl continued. "It's loaded with caffeine. It'll make you jittery."

Wally took the cup–relishing the warmth in his hands–but found himself unable to take a sip. He'd been trying to eat more–really, he had–but his stomach still soured at the thought of anything more flavorful than oatmeal or bread. But, he really appreciated the gesture.

He really appreciated  _her_.

* * *

"Now, you're going to feel a big pinch..."

Dick thrashed as two burly orderlies pushed him against his cell wall, beefy hands holding onto his arms in bruising grips. The boy felt a cool cloth rub against his forearm, followed by fingers gently tapping against the skin there, trying to coax a vein to the surface. Dick tried to yank his arm away, panicked eyes watching as the doc squeezed air bubbles from the chamber of a liquid-filled syringe, sickly yellow ooze rolling down the needle's side, before dropping to the floor with a soft "plop".

"Stop." The boy pleaded, shaking his head. "Please–"

"Begging will get you nowhere, Mr. Grayson, so please,  _hold_ _still_."

The doc brought the needle closer, its sharp tip pressing into soft, yielding skin. Then, he pushed down on the plunger, expelling the yellow liquid from the chamber and into his unwilling patient's outstretched arm.

Dick thrashed, trying to shy away from the cold feeling that rushed through his veins, pulsing through his arms, his legs, his brain. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest as the effects set in, anxiety washing over him, his head swimming.

"You can let him go now."

Dick collapsed to the floor, quickly drawing his limbs together, trying to make himself as small as possible. He'd forgotten the feeling; the terror suddenly gripping him by the throat, choking all the courage and bravery from his lungs.

Fear was a powerful weapon.

He huddled against the wall of his cell, holding his knees close to his chest as the drug seized control of his mind. He blinked, and suddenly  _they_  were there; his family, broken and crumpled on the ground, right before his eyes. Blood ran along the floor, seeping closer and closer, slowly forming into macabre hands with grasping fingers.

Letting out a strangled sob, Dick pulled himself onto the cot, covering his ears as he started to hear their screams, the gasps of the crowd, the sick 'crunch' of flesh and bone meeting the earth.

" _What do you think he's seeing?"_

Dick barely registered the voice of one of the compound's orderlies right next to him; reality suddenly seemed so far away.

He stayed like that until the drug wore off several hours later...until their cries died down, and their bodies slowly faded away. By that time, he was out of tears, his eyes staring blankly at the wall, silently begging for it to end.

He'd been so lucky before...

* * *

There was something calming about the moon; its constant light, its soft glow. Connor wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was mesmerized by its presence, finding himself drawn out of his room time and time again, simply to stare at its pock-marked surface in the chilled night. He'd spent his entire short life in Happy Harbor, where the sky was blotted out by light pollution and smog. But, in rural Smallville, the sky was brilliant; awash with thousands and thousands of stars, all hovering in the endless vacuum of space, lifetimes away from Earth.

Not long after the Purge, Clark had taught him about constellations; the patterns that early humans had created to tell stories, and help them find their way. Those designs took the forms of animals, important objects, and the superheroes of their time; deities, demigods, legends. Sometimes–sitting bathed in the moon's glow–Connor would make up his own constellations, overwriting the old and replacing them with modern heroes...

...replacing them with his fallen friends.

*ring* *ring* *ring*

Connor sighed, absently reaching a hand into his pocket to fish out his blaring cellphone. Clark still hadn't come back from Gotham, but he called every hour to make sure that everything in Smallville was alright, worrying like an overprotective mother hen.

" _We don't know what Eclipse might do right now. We need to be careful."_

The clone frowned when he saw the number on the l.e.d screen. It wasn't Clark...it wasn't anyone he knew. Suddenly on alert, the boy answered, holding the phone up to his ear, waiting to see who his mysterious caller was.

" _Hello, Kon-El."_

_Luthor._

When news had reached the Kent home that Lex Luthor had walked out of the compound, unharmed, unscathed save for a metal shock collar around his neck, Clark had thrown a dinner plate through the small tube television in the living room, uncharacteristic rage bubbling to the surface. He then took Connor aside, still fuming, and told him never to talk to _that man_ ; to never let Lex Luthor into his life.

" _He'll only hurt you, Connor. You're an_ _ **investment**_ _to him, even without your powers."_

So, naturally, when Luthor called the first time–somehow finding his private cell number–Connor promptly told him to "fuck off" and hung up.

But, Luthor was nothing if not persistent. He started calling from a series of different numbers–so Connor had no way of ignoring him–always when he least expected it.

Like now.

"Fuck off."

" _Is that any way to speak to your father?"_

"What the hell do you want,  _Luthor_?" The clone demanded, his voice dripping with venom.

" _I heard what happened to your friend. How unfortunate. Do you know what they do to repeat offenders?"_

Connor knew he should hang up; that he shouldn't even  _humor_  this man...but he refused to let anyone badmouth his friend. Not while he was around.

"He didn't do it. He was with me the entire time."

" _Do you really think Eclipse_ _ **cares**_ _? All they have to do is make an example of him, and no one will try to be a hero ever again. You won't be seeing that little bird any time soon."_

"Shut up." Connor hissed, seeing red...but he knew Luthor was right.

Dammit.

" _What if I told you that I have a way to save him?"_

"I'd say you were a liar." The clone growled. "I don't even now why I'm still talking to you."

" _Because, deep down, you want my help."_  Luthor replied with a dark chuckle _"You know that I'm the only person out there with any chance of saving your friend. I've got_ _ **connections,**_ _Kon-El."_

"You never give anything for free."

" _You know me too well."_ The other man continued.  _"I can help get Mr. Grayson out of Eclipse's hands...and all I ask, is that, in return, you leave Smallville, and come live with me."_

Connor hung up, throwing the cellphone as far as he could, watching it disappear into the tall grass with a dull *wuff*.

"You can't keep breaking those. We don't make a lot of money here."

The boy whipped around, finding Ma Kent standing behind him on the steps, her arms crossed over her chest. His face flushed with shame.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough." Mrs. Kent replied, sitting beside him on the steps, her movements slow and labored. "Was that Luthor again?"

The boy nodded.

"I don't know what I should do." Connor whispered. "I know that I can't trust him, but he said he could save my friend."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know...but the compound is worse than hell." The clone continued, running a hand absent-mindedly over his arms. All of the bruises were gone–had been for a long time–but he still couldn't forget...he'd  _never_  forget. "If there's something that I can do, anything, so he doesn't have to suffer, I know I should. He saved me from Cadmus. If he hadn't...where would I be now?"

Martha took his hand in hers; calloused skin rough against his own. But, her grip was warm and comforting, her presence beside him reassuring.. Now, he knew why Clark had decided to come home instead of returning to Metropolis.

"There's no easy answer, Connor." She said. "Life is full of tough decisions. If you really think that Luthor can help your friend, you need to go to him."

Connor scoffed.

"Clark wouldn't agree with that."

"But, you're not Clark." Martha replied, her voice ernest. "You're  _Connor_ , as different as any son is from their father. You make your own decisions, forge your own path. Only you can decide what needs to be done."

After that, they sat in silence, staring up at the moon and the stars. Connor briefly wondered if the old woman found as much beauty in them as he did, before tightening his grip on her hand, and helping her to her feet.

"It's getting cold...Ma." He said, trying to force a smile.

And like that, everything was back to the way it should be...save for Luthor's words rattling around in his skull.

" _I can help get Mr. Grayson out of Eclipse's hands...and all I ask, is that, in return, you leave Smallville, and come live with me."_

_Leave Smallville, and come live with me..._

_With me..._


	9. Segues

**Chapter 9: Segues**

His father's room was always as silent as death.

When he first arrived back in the manor, Tim thought that the place would constantly be filled with the sounds of gasping; that the man's every bid for breath would be a struggle. But no. Jackson Drake was always silent, save when he spoke, and even then, one would expect his voice to be rusty, old, and full of nails, but it wasn't. Sometimes, if Tim closed his eyes, he could pretend that his father was the same as he'd always been...that his body wasn't deemed damaged beyond repair by even the best doctors.

But...this wasn't the time for pretending.

Timothy Drake crept into the dark room, throwing open the curtains, letting the dim Gotham sunlight force the shadows away. Woken by the noise, Jack Drake stirred, blinking his sunken-in eyes, blindly reaching out with one skeletal arm. Tim crossed to his side, taking the man's hand, feeling the cold, clammy,  _dead_  skin there.

"Hey, Dad." He said in a hushed voice. "Morning."

"Tim..." The man murmured. He smiled as best he could, relaxing back into the pillows cradling his neck. "Where have you been?"

"Work."

Jack's smile faded.

"All night?"

Tim nodded.

"Why don't you stay home today then?" The man continued, his voice hopeful, blood-shot eyes pleading. "It's a beautiful day. I'd like some company."

Tom wanted to scoff; to push the man away, leave him behind and helpless in the bed. Some  _company_? He'd never wanted his company before; traipsing all over the world, leaving Tim behind with nannies; shipping him off to various boarding schools. When Tim had needed him most, he'd never been there; not ever. No one had  _ever_  been there.

"I can't." Tim replied, pulling his hand away. "I have a lead on Atlantis."

Jack Drake made a soft huff, pulling his arm back to his chest.

"Of course you do." He sighed. "Why don't you just leave them in peace?"

"Because they control the sea." Tim snapped, his icy eyes narrowing. "They can cripple us with their powers; collapsing trade routes, destroying cargo, taking hostages. Already, they've begun their attack–"

"You kidnapped their prince–"

"I don't expect you to understand, father."

Jack pulled his lips into a frown, and closed his eyes.

"My body is damaged, Timothy...not my mind. I understand enough."

They fought often, on days when Jack Drake spoke. Tim preferred it when he was silent, mechanically going through the motions of life: not questioning him, not berating him for his choices. The man didn't understand his work, he didn't understand the sacrifices he'd made, what he'd given up...what he'd given away.

Tim shook his head, sitting by the man's bedside, watching as he slipped back into slumber. With his eyes shut tight, Jack Drake looked like a corpse; blue veins showing through gray skin, pale lips pulled back from his teeth.

"Eclipse says they're really close to making you better." Tim whispered, knowing that his father couldn't hear him. "It won't be long now until you won't need me anymore. And then, you can go traveling again."

It wouldn't be long before he'd be alone again...

He hated being alone.

Turning from his father's bedside, Tim slunk into the hallway, suddenly bone-tired and weary. His pinching dress-shoes dragged along the carpet, each step a struggle as he tromped back to his room, crawling into bed and sinking into the soft sheets, clothes and all.

His body was exhausted, worn out and heavy, but his mind raced endlessly, recalling maps, and data, and names. He saw meetings, faces; heard praises and reprimands. He couldn't make it stop. He could never make it stop.

Closing his eyes, Tim buried his face in his pillow, willing sleep to come. Just once, he wanted to relax, to shut off his mind, and sleep peacefully. Soon, he'd have to return to Eclipse, and the work would begin anew. More names, more faces, more meetings. More more more.

With a sigh, the boy rolled over, his hands reaching for the bedside table, grabbing ahold of an orange bottle of pills. He popped the cap and shook two into his hand, downing them dry.

Sleep would only come if he forced it to.

* * *

Two-Face was there, standing by the door, holding a bat soaked in blood. The villain never spoke, never moved; merely hovering in front of the exit, holding his weapon in one acid-eaten hand.

Dick knew he wasn't real.

It was the drug. It had to be the drug. He knew that Two-Face was buried deep inside the compound, kept in stasis, just like the other villains. He was locked up. He'd always be locked up.

But, Dick was still afraid.

Nine years old–inexperienced, young, vulnerable–he'd almost had his head bashed in by that man. Through the years, he'd broken bones, dislocated shoulders, been stabbed, gotten concussions, but none of it compared to the pain and fear he'd felt when that bat was beating him into a pulp, snapping his ribs, cracking his skull, leaving him a bloody, crumpled mess.

He'd almost died.

After that, Bruce had never let him near Two-Face again, and for that, Dick had been silently grateful.

Burying his head in his hands, the boy tried not to look at the figure standing at the door; trying to keep his breathing calm, trying not to panic. The drug would wear off soon. He just had to wait it out. It couldn't be much longer.

It couldn't.

Could it?

* * *

Tim could hear footsteps, padding along the floorboards, and he groaned, rolling onto his back, blinking bleary eyes at the ceiling.

"Go away." He mumbled, his mouth clumsy from sleep. Silently, a figure appeared above him, silhouetted against the light from the hall. There was something in the shadow's hand...

Suddenly pressed into the mattress, Tim tried to scream, only to have a cloth forced against his nose and mouth. It smelled sharp and blinding, the scent racing through his head, leaving black sludge in its wake. The boy dug his fingers deep into his attacker's wrist, pulling with all his might, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not wrench the man's hand from his face. Frantic struggles quickly faded as the fight drained from his body and he ultimately fell still, hands relinquishing their hold, eyes fluttering shut.

Only then did the cloth slip away.

Once again, there were no heroes to save him...

* * *

Connor wasn't sure when he'd started packing.

Suddenly, he was shoving everything he owned into a duffel bag; pulling posters and newspaper clippings from the walls, wadding up shirts and jeans and socks. He carefully folded the sweaters Ma Kent had made him–the soft wool ones all in red and black–and collected his toiletries from the bathroom. By the time he was done, his small room in the farmhouse was bare, and he found himself holding out his cellphone, staring at the text message he'd painstakingly typed out.

_You win. I'll go with you._

He hit send.

Connor didn't have the heart for goodbyes, but Mrs. Kent had been so good to him, despite the fact that he was just a butchered copy of her son. He'd come to Smallville a mess–regressed and volatile–but her kindness and her patience had helped him bounce back, to remember the simple joys in life. He'd never been happier before. Not even with Young Justice. Not even with M'gann. For the first time in his short life, he'd finally had a family.

And now, he was abandoning it.

The car came for him in the middle of the night, shining its lights into his bedroom. Connor was awake, and he grabbed his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he moved quickly through the house. The floorboards creaked with every step, but Connor continued on. He couldn't stop. Not until he was in the car, and on his way to Metropolis. He was afraid that he would lose his nerve; that he'd change his mind and stay with Martha, and Clark and apple pies and normalcy...that he'd abandon his friend to an eternity in the compound just for a chance at the life he wanted.

No. He couldn't let Dick suffer. Couldn't let Wally or Bruce suffer either. Connor would be fine. He'd do what Luthor wanted–he'd play the role handed out to him, he'd run away from the only family he'd ever had–because friends made sacrifices for each other.

It was something that Luthor  _wouldn't_  do.

Pushing his way out the front door and down the steps, Connor let out a sigh of relief. Almost there. He could see the driver–Luthor's personal aid, Mercy–sitting in the front seat, hunched over the wheel, her fingers tapping impatiently against the leather. She motioned towards the rear of the car, and Connor nodded, popping open the door and throwing his duffle inside.

It was only then, hand resting on the car's polished roof, that he allowed himself to look back...and it was only then that he saw Martha Kent standing on the porch, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her expression too far away to read. Connor swallowed thickly, emotion bubbling in his chest as they locked eyes. Did she feel like she was being abandoned? Betrayed? She'd understand, wouldn't she? Maybe he could send a letter someday, when everything wasn't so raw and painful?

With a short half-hearted wave, Connor turned, climbing into the dark cabin and away from the most kind-hearted woman he'd ever known.

Away from Smallville, and starry nights, and the endless fields of corn. Away from school, and general stores, and dirt roads.

Away from home.

* * *

Spandex, while flashy and flexible, was useless when it came to offering any form of protection. The real Batman and Robin had quickly taken to wearing armor, in order to defend themselves against knives and arrows, and bullets.

Jason didn't have that luxury. He'd stitched  _his_  costume together in the darkness of his cellar, from scrap fabric and a few spools of thread he'd found secreted away in a trunk. It looked the part, but, as far as protection went...

It was beyond lacking.

Jason let out a strangled cry, holding a hand to his side as he gasped for air, blood running through his fingers. It hurt. He'd never felt anything like it...and the blood: It just kept coming.

He needed to get away. He couldn't do this.

The boy scrambled to reach for the grappling hook hidden away in his belt, only to have his arm wrenched violently behind his back. He struggled against his attacker's hold, cussing and swearing, screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming for help.

Sirens pierced the night, and Jason was suddenly falling, dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks. He could hear his attackers running away, shoes slapping against the pavement as they made their escape. Jason could only groan, every breath a struggle. The world spun around him, a dizzying blur of red and blue, but he could hear a car door slam, and it wasn't long before footsteps followed.

The cops had arrived.

"No, don't worry. I've got this handled."

"Yes, Commissioner. If you're sure."

Their voices echoed through his fuzzy mind, and Jason found himself struggling to see the face of his demise. He knew what would happen next. The cops would take him in–take away his costume and his gear–and then he'd be handed over to Eclipse, where they would take away  _Robin_. They'd take away everything he'd worked for, and make him back into a helpless orphaned boy with no control over his own life. He felt like crying, but held it in. He refused to show weakness, even now, when he stood to lose everything.

"So, you're the impostor."

Jason looked up, finding a tall gray-haired man glaring down at him through thick spectacles. The man knelt beside him, hands reaching out to try and examine the wound in his abdomen, but Jason flinched away, letting out a small grunt.

"What the hell were you thinking?" The stranger demanded, his voice shaking with anger.

"I was trying to save people." Jason groaned. "Everyone else is too cowardly."

The man frowned.

"It's not cowardice that keeps them off the streets."

"I'm not afraid of Eclipse."

That was a lie. He  _was_  afraid, but he couldn't show that fear. He was Gotham's last line of defense. He'd helped so many people.

"You need a hospital."

Jason could feel the blood still dripping through his fingers, small droplets spattering the pavement. Once again, the man tried to reach out to help, but Jason slapped his hands away reeling in pain from the effort. He couldn't let himself get taken in. Not easily. Gotham's cops weren't kind. They were corrupt and dirty. He'd learned that early on.

"My name is Jim Gordon. I'm the police commissioner–"

"Like that makes me feel any better." Jason spat. "You're just going to send me away, like all the other heroes. You're going to hand me over to  _them_."

"I promise, I won't."

This time, Jason couldn't stop the man from pulling his blood-stained hand away from the wound, darkness pushing its way past the adrenaline.

"Don't...don't touch me..."

His voice was beginning to slur; words heavy and impossible in his mouth. Gordon ignored his pleas, instead pressing a ball of cloth against the wound, to add pressure and soak up the gushing blood. Looking down, Jason saw a flash of bright yellow...his cape, torn and stained crimson.

"Better...keep yer word..." The boy mumbled as his eyes fluttered shut.

"I will." Gordon whispered, right before the darkness blotted him from view.

" _You're going to be alright."_


	10. In the Cave

**Chapter 10:** **In the Cave.  
**

Wayne manor had always been a dismal place; shrouded in darkness, weighed down by the histories trapped within. Overnight, Alfred had watched it become a place where tragedy festered, where lost souls congregated and shared their misery.

Silhouetted in the moonlight outside, slumped over in his chair, Bruce sipped gingerly at a cold cup of tea, his entire countenance weary, his posture tired. Alfred moved to his employer's side, tutting softly as he spotted the man's dinner lying untouched atop the blanket on his lap.

"You really should eat something, Master Bruce."

He reached forward, taking the silver tray away, eyes running sadly over the tepid vegetable soup; thick fats and oils congealing on the top.

"Between you and Master Wallace, most of my cooking's going to waste."

Bruce sighed softly, turning away from the window.

"I'm sorry, Alfred." He said, his voice quiet and cowed. "I just don't have the stomach for it right now."

Balancing the tray on his palm, Alfred clicked on the bedside light, filling the room with long, grasping shadows. Bruce squinted at the sudden brightness, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, dark bruises smeared beneath them, in contrast to his pale, waxy face.

The man had never dealt gracefully with tragedy, for one whose life was riddled with it, and now, without an outlet to channel his feelings, he was simply fading away. 'Batman' had always been his way of coping. It was never the  _healthiest_  way, Alfred knew that, but it worked for him, and had continued to do so for many years.

But now...

Eclipse had killed the Bat entirely...and the man left behind–the man known as Bruce Wayne–was only a shell; a small eight year old child watching the death of his parents again and again and again...

Everything he had once been was gone.

"We really should try going for walk, Sir." Alfred said, reaching for the handles of Bruce's wheelchair. "You haven't been to see your parents in almost a week."

Bruce murmured softly, looking out the window again.

"I think you should  _really_  go for a walk." The butler repeated, pulling the chair back, away from the glass. "You need to keep working that leg of yours, or it'll never heal."

...

"What difference would it make?"

It was whispered, almost too soft to hear, but it stopped Alfred in his tracks, his grip around the handles of the wheelchair tightening.

"It would make a lot of difference, Master Bruce. Do you really want to be in that chair forever?"

"Alfred..."

"One must carry on, sir. I don't believe Richard would like seeing you this way."

Bruce flinched visibly, fingers worrying at the fabric of the blanket, his frown deepening. It was an underhanded and cruel thing to say, but life had to go on. Life  _always_  went on.

"He's a strong boy, stronger than you give him credit for." Alfred continued. "Use that mind of yours. Think of a way to get him out. You're one of the greatest detectives in the world, Master Bruce. Don't just sit here, and do nothing."

Bruce was silent for a moment, his fingers still pulling at the blanket, stormy eyes narrowed, as though he was barely holding back tears.

"I'm begging you, Bruce." Alfred whispered, reaching down to rest a hand on the man's shoulder. "Don't let them do this to you."

For a moment, he saw the frightened boy he had met so long ago; the silent, scared orphan who clung to him like a lifeline. They had become each other's worlds, perhaps not quite father and son, but close enough, and while Alfred had never had children of his own, he had raised two wonderful, brave, boys. Heroes. They would always be heroes.

Alfred drew his hand away, turning back to the window, frown deepening as he spotted lights in the driveway. Headlights.

"Someone's here." He murmured, peering outside. A car–a police car–was parked in the driveway, a man climbing out of the passenger seat, holding a brightly-colored bundle in his arms.

"It's the commissioner." Alfred said, backing away.

"You need to let him in." Bruce replied, forcing a small smile. "I can wait."

Alfred stared at his employer a moment, before nodding, turning on his heel to head for the door.

* * *

Wayne manor was the only place he could think of to go.

It had occurred him, standing in front of the gilded well-lit facade of Gotham's premier hospital, that this boy, dressed in the costume of a fallen hero, who was brave, and driven, and lived without fear, would quickly attract Eclipse's attention. They would come for him. They would take him away.

No.

He'd promised.

So, Gordon had found himself on the path to Wayne manor, hoping, with all his heart, that there was someone inside who could help the boy. And also that it wasn't too late.

"Please say you can help." Gordon begged, entering the foyer, finding himself face-to-face with Alfred Pennyworth and Clark Kent, both still dressed from the day, both looking shoced and horrified.

"Is that–" Clark began, holding a hand to his mouth, a strangely dainty gesture for what was once the strongest man on Earth.

"It's the impostor." Gordon continued. "He's been stabbed."

He watched as Alfred's face turned cold, thin lips twisting into a frown. For a moment, Jim was sure that he would refuse, that he would turn his back on the injured boy, his heart frozen by the circumstances that had fallen upon his family. However, after some hesitation–too much, there wasn't time for this–the butler nodded, beckoning the man to follow him up the steps.

"I'm not sure how much I can do." Alfred said, hurrying up the stairs, surprisingly spry for a man of his age. "Eclipse destroyed the cave, and most my medical equipment along with it. But I'll do my best. Clark?"

"Yes?" The Kryptonian asked.

"My phonebook's in the kitchen. I need to you call Leslie Thompkins. Tell her it's an emergency. We might need some blood."

"Sure!"

Clark jogged off, leaving the two to continue on without him, twisting through the darkened mansion, lit only by dim sconces. They entered a dusty study, its walls lined with medical texts and instruments, interspersed with antiques and a few stray portraits. Alfred approached an old, ornate grandfather clock, his fingers reaching up to turn the hands, deliberately, with practiced ease. Jim almost jumped out of his skin as the clock shifted aside, revealing a gaping black tunnel, cold air pouring out in waves. Soft lights automatically flickered to life, inlaid into rock walls, and Alfred moved forward, racing down the winding steps, deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Jim struggled to keep up, stepping carefully on crumbling, uneven stairs; the boy's body heavy and cumbersome in his arms. When he reached the bottom, Alfred was righting an upturned medical table, quickly gathering dusty, scattered equipment.

"Set him down, but keep pressure on the wound." The butler ordered, reaching into an old leather bag, pulling out bottles and instruments. "It's been ages since I've had to do something like this. Let us hope that Ms. Thompkins arrives soon."

Alfred worked quickly, cutting away the boy's shirt, sterilizing the wound. He poked and prodded at the skin, letting out a soft sigh of relief.

"He's lost a lot of blood, but the wound itself isn't very deep."

"That's good." Jim murmured, his eyes wandering around the cave.

He'd never seen it before.

He had doubted that it was actually a cave, but there it was, bats and all. There were hundreds of them; clinging to the ceiling, flying about in agitated fury, leathery wings beating against the air.

However, everything else was in ruins.

Glass was everywhere, the remnants of shattered decorative cases, costumes and weapons and what could only be memorabilia lying forgotten and broken on the floor. The batmobile and the bat plane were damaged beyond recognition, now only useless hunks of metal resting on their respective pedestals. Ragged wires and cables jutted haphazardly from one empty wall. In front of it, an office chair rested sadly on its side, coated in a thick layer of dust.

"I have things handled down here." Alfred called, his jacket shed, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Could you go check on Master Bruce, please. I had to leave him in quite a hurry."

"Sure." Jim replied with a curt nod.

He was about to leave, when the butler pressed a ball of cloth into his hands.

The impostor's costume.

"Ask him if this is one of ours." Alfred murmured, turning back to the table.

" _Ask him if this was stolen from us..."_

* * *

Jim was glad to see that Bruce had moved from Dick's room to his own, but he was still crowding the window, still staring outside, waiting...

"When was the last time you slept, Bruce?" The man asked, taking a few steps into the room, hesitant and unsure.

Bruce turned, forcing a weak smile, the pull of his lips only making him look more tired.

"I'm a bit of an insomniac." He chuckled softly.

Jim shifted nervously, all too aware of the ruined costume in his hands; bright red and yellow, the colors once worn by Bruce's missing ward. Robin's colors.  _Dick's_  colors.

"What's that?" Bruce asked, sitting up in his chair, muscles tensing, hands gripping the armrests with as much strength as he could muster.

Clearing his throat, Gordon held up the costume, unsure of how to proceed, words becoming heavy in his mouth.

"I was out on patrol with a young officer." Jim began, fumbling over his words. "We found a kid in an alley–"

"You found the impostor."

Jim nodded.

"That boy doesn't know what he's done." Bruce growled, turning back to the window, trembling as he dug his nails into the padding on the arms of his chair. "Where is he now?"

"In the cave."

"Why?"

"I couldn't leave him at the hospital. Eclipse would find him–"

"And they'd let Dick go."

"We can't turn him in." Jim snapped. "Do you even hear yourself?"

"How would you feel if they had Barbara?" Bruce demanded narrowing his suddenly cold eyes. "How would you feel if you knew that she was locked up in a small cell–that they were torturing her–for no reason? Wouldn't you do  _anything_  to free her?"

"Bruce..."

"I  _know_  we can't turn that kid in. I know that." The man murmured hanging his head, his anger fading as quickly as it had come. "But, there's a part of me that wants to...so much. Dick doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to end up like me..."

Jim watched as Bruce absently ran his hands over his forearms, and it was only then, for the first time, that he saw the small dots along the man's skin; healed scar tissue, smooth and reflective in the moonlight.

Marks left by sharp syringes.

"Fear is the easiest way to control people...even superheroes." Bruce continued, beginning to tremble. "Even in my condition, I didn't go quietly. I'm not meta, so the collars were useless...but they had another way."

The man looked down at his now shaking hands, his blue eyes wide, unseeing. As much as Gordon wanted to know what had happened to his friend–what had managed to change him so much in such a short amount of time–he didn't want to hurt him.

"You don't have to tell me." The man said, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I will...someday." Bruce replied softly. "When I can. I just...It was bad enough that Dick ended up there the first time. If I had known that any of this would happen, I never would have let him be Robin, and he'd still be here. He'd be safe."

"None of us saw this coming."

" _I_  should have." The other man sighed.

Gordon knew that there would be no convincing him otherwise.

"Alfred is looking after the impostor." Jim murmured. "He should be alright."

The man plaintively held out the boy's ruined suit, pressing it into Bruce's hands.

"Is this...is it..."

The words died on his tongue.

Bruce's fingers picked at the costume's crude seams, his eyes taking in the mismatched fabric and the hastily stitched "R" logo glued to the chest. Up close, the craftsmanship was awful, but far away, it looked enough like the real thing; similar enough in design to fool Eclipse.

To cost Richard Grayson his freedom.

"This is handmade." Bruce said, his attention turning to the jagged tear in the side, still stained damp with blood. "That kid put this together himself."

The man set the costume onto his lap, turning to Jim with determined, stormy eyes.

"I need to see him."

"It might not be a good idea." Jim replied. "You might fall."

Bruce slumped in his chair, his fingers worrying at the costume's bloody fabric.

"You're right." He murmured. "I probably would."

* * *

Kaldur slumped in the small cell shower, letting a cascade of cold water run over his gills, gasping and wheezing as he struggled to replenish his oxygen. The water was lightly chlorinated, near poison, but it was all he had.

He was getting used to it.

How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Years? His life before seemed so far away; almost an illusion. He  _couldn_ 't be the person he saw swimming through the jeweled palace of Poseidonis, or standing by the king's side in battle. He was only a shade of what Kaldur'ahm had been; a scarred, defeated shade, tarnishing the prince's memory by existing.

It was too much. It was all too much.

He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, his voice adding to the cacophony all around him. He wanted to be beaten into oblivion so he didn't have to see this reality anymore. He wanted everything to simply  _stop_.

A few simple coordinates would free him. Or would they? Would Eclipse merely take his words and capture his people, leaving him to rot by their sides? Would he be killed, having lived past his usefulness?

A few simple words.

That was all it would take.

The Atlantean shook his head, pulling his knees to his chest.

No, no no. He couldn't let himself think like that. He couldn't let his mind wander to betrayal. He might no longer be mighty and proud, but his silence could keep them safe. As long as he refused to give in, as long as he continued to endure their tortures, his people would be alright. No one could harm them.

He would give everything for them, and for his king.

Everything.

 


	11. Waking Up

**Chapter 11: Waking Up.  
**

_Looking up at his mother's face, seeing her soft, somber smile; the red of her lipstick standing out against pale skin. They were not people of the sun; lurking in the darkness of oppressive buildings, their faces reddening when exposed to the light. Tim had learned quickly to hang onto the shadows; to hang onto his mother..._

_Until suddenly, she was snatched away._

* * *

Tim blinked open heavy eyes, his head throbbing, mouth parched. He let out a soft groan, pressing his face against something cold and hard. Metal. It felt like metal. And it was vibrating, moving.

He was in a vehicle..and it was moving.

Weakly, he tried to shake feeling into his arms, but found that he couldn't, something rough digging into his wrists. Rope. He was tied up. Same results with his legs. What had happened? Where was he?

"Father?" He called, his voice cracking in his dry throat. His head was beginning to clear, but everything remained dark. For a moment, he panicked, before feeling the soft 'shush' of fabric against his face. Blindfolded. He was blindfold.

Suddenly, all of the pieces came together.

The maid, holding the rag over his mouth. The feeling of darkness creeping in. Chloroform, its acrid scent burning through his nose.

He'd been kidnapped.

His home was supposed to be safe, a place where he and his father could just  _be, a_  a place where he could lay his head and rest after a long, straining work day. He'd let his guard down and now...here he was: Blindfolded and trussed up in the back of a vehicle. Helpless.

No.

He'd vowed that he would never be helpless again.

Tim's heart was pounding in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm, and listen. He could hear the car's motor running, the gentle hum bearing into his pounding skull. He could also hear soft voices–male voices–too muffled to make out. There had to be a barrier between himself and them. They were keeping him separated. They were careful.

He was in trouble.

He'd been kidnapped before, thrown in the back seat of a car, carried off to a dank, dirty warehouse. He'd come face to face with the Riddler...and outsmarted him.

But, there weren't any more masked villains. No more capes.

These were regular, mundane men. They wanted money. It had to be money. The Drake family was swimming with it. Ransom. That's all it was. They would call his father, demand a gross sum, and then hand him over...hopefully.

Tim began counting seconds, using the distraction to keep his mind focussed. One hour passed. Then two. His mind began to wander, and time fell away–everything fell away–until he was left in the dark with only the soft voices of his captors and the hum of the engine to keep him company.

When the vehicle finally came to a halt, Tim sat up as best he could, wondering if they would come for him, wondering where he was, and why they'd taken him so far. He heard a door screech open, felt sunlight and fresh air brush against his face, followed by hands grabbing his arm, pulling back the sleeve of his dress shirt, and pressing a needle into the exposed skin.

It all happened so fast.

He screamed, struggling, until cold raced though his veins, pulling him under again, dragging him back into the safe, dark, reaches of his mind.

_They weren't people of the sun..._

* * *

He felt like he was floating, lighter than air.

" _I'm dead..."_  Jason thought absently, pulling his eyes open, seeing only bright light. He blinked a few times before making an attempt to move, letting out a soft groan as pain shot through is abdomen.

No. Not dead. In death, there was no pain, no suffering. He was still alive, still breathing...still here

The boy tried to get up, only to feel a gentle hand on his chest, pushing him back down into soft sheets and downy pillows.

"Be careful." A voice hushed. "You'll pull your stitches."

Jason looked up into the wrinkled face of an old man. A weak man. Not a threat. The boy allowed himself to relax, breathing though the ache in his side.

"W-what happened?" He rasped, his throat dry.

"You were stabbed." The old man replied, reaching for a glass of water on the bedside table. He held it up to Jason's cracked lips, slowly pouring the liquid into his parched mouth, taking the glass away all too soon. The boy scowled. His caretaker chuckled.

"You can't have too much. You might make yourself sick."

"Who  _are_ you?" Jason demanded, getting back some of his courage, feeling stronger with each passing second. "Where am I?"

"My name's Alfred Pennyworth." The man replied. "And you are at Wayne manor."

Wayne manor? Home of Bruce Wayne...

Home of Batman.

"How'd I get here?"

Alfred's face softened a bit.

"You were found in an alley by a friend of Master Wayne's. In  _costume."_

_In_ _**costume.** _

The alley. The muggers ganging up on him. The sharp stab of metal, and the warm gush of blood in his hands.

A man's–a different man's–kind face staring down at him, putting pressure on the wound.

" _You're just going to send me away, like all the other heroes. You're going to hand me over to_ _ **them**_ _."_

" _I promise, I won't."_

He'd kept his promise.

Jason allowed Alfred to check his heart rate and oxygen; allowed him to take a sample of blood. When he was done, the butler told him to get some rest, promising to bring some broth up for him to sip.

"Homemade. An old family recipe."

Jason couldn't deny that he was ravenous. He wasn't sure when he'd last eaten–he wasn't even sure how long it'd been since the attack–all he knew was that he was safe, in the home of a former hero–even if that hero  _was_  Batman. He'd bide his time, wait it out until he felt better, nab some painkillers, and hit the streets. He'd gotten lucky this time...but he wouldn't let someone get the jump on him ever again.

* * *

"How can you stand it, knowing that the kid who got Dick taken away, is right in the other room?"

Wally simply shrugged, pulling a chunk of bread from a warm dinner roll, popping the morsel into his mouth. Artemis frowned at him, stabbing her fork into a square portion of steak, metal making a loud clank against glass.

"I  _want_  to be mad." He replied, sensing her anger. "But, the kid's been though enough, don't ya think? Besides...the real enemy's Eclipse, remember?"

Artemis grumbled something beneath her breath, shaking her head.

"I guess..." She said.

They were sitting on the floor in Wally's bedroom, dinner plates balanced in their laps, working through of meal of red steak, mashed potatoes, buttery rolls, and tender carrots. Eating was becoming easier, though the former speedster still balked at the thought of richer foods (the steak swimming in its thick gravy was out of the question). He was coming to love Alfred's flaky dinner rolls, eating them one after another, savoring their warm flavor.

Things were getting easier...somewhat, especially with Artemis visiting several times a week. Day by day, hour by hour, things were getting better.  _He_  was getting better.

But, he'd never be the same.

Not with the memories haunting his waking moments, not with the heavy reminder weighing around his neck. Not with his limbs heavy,  _normal,_ not  _meta._ He'd felt true freedom once, running faster than the speed of light, the wind in his hair, watching the countryside whizz by. He'd tasted what it was like to be a hero, to make a difference. He'd known what it felt like to be part of a family that loved and cared about him.

And then...suddenly, all of that was gone; leaving bruises, and fear, and pain.

"Is Mr. Wayne doing any better?" Artemis asked, finishing up her meal by dragging a roll through a pool of leftover gravy.

Wally shook his head.

"I haven't seen him lately. He never leaves his room."

Bruce Wayne, tired and broken, sitting in a wheelchair, waiting for a boy that would never come. He'd been fine before Dick was taken, managing to hold it together, walking as best he could, going through the motions. But, after...

It was like he'd been held up by smiles and kind words; and when those were gone, so was his drive; his will to live. Without his ward–his  _son–_ Bruce had no reason to  _be_  anymore.

Wally knew he couldn't end up like that. He had to try and get better.

He had to try.

"I think I'm going to ask Alfred to help me enroll in school." Wally said, keeping his eyes downcast.

"Public school?" Artemis asked. "With your brain, you should go to the Academy."

_With you..._

"I'd like to...I just wouldn't know how to pay for it. I don't have any money."

Artemis quirked a brow, her lips twisting into a crooked frown.

"Wally, you know Mr. Wayne would help you out. You're one of Dick's best friends,  _and_  you're a genius. I'm sure if you asked him, he wouldn't say no."

"I can't do that."

Wally hung his head, pushing his plate away, his weak appetite completely gone.

"He's already done so much for me, I can't ask anymore. Not now."

_Not after he lost Dick..._

Artemis sighed, balancing his plate on top of hers, getting to her feet.

"I've got a test tomorrow." She said, "Gotta study."

"Yeah, yeah..." Wally murmured. "I understand. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure."

And then, he was alone again. Wally sighed, leaning against the side of his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as he could.

Artemis just didn't understand. He  _couldn't_  ask Bruce for so much, not after everything he'd done. Wally was no more than a freeloader, a mooch, leeching off of the man's goodwill. Bruce Wayne didn't owe him anything, let alone an expensive education.

The boy sighed, running his hands through his hair, once again overwhelmed by the oppressive extravagance around him.

His own home had been small; a tiny square room, a shared bathroom, a cramped kitchen. It was humble, and far from perfect, but he'd grown used to the confinement. It had been simple...

But now, he was surrounded by too many riches, unsure of how to cope with it. The decor was heavy, the lights dim. It was all too much to adjust to.

How had Dick done it?

"Master Wallace, are you alright?"

Alfred was standing in the door, holding a silver tray in his gloved hands. On it was a small bowl of broth, steam rolling off the surface.

"Yeah." The boy replied. "I'm fine."

Wally got to his feet, sitting on the edge of the mattress, wincing as he jarred his still-tender ribs.

Alfred didn't show emotion very often–his expressions expertly schooled after years of practice–but Wally could see the sadness in his eyes. No. Not sadness.

 _Pity_.

He was tired of being pitied.

"I wanna start going to school again." Wally said, forcing a small smile. "I'm tired of being cooped up here.

Alfred nodded, not even skipping a beat.

"Master Bruce and I had made plans for this. For whenever you were ready."

Wally's eyes widened.

"Really?"

"At Gotham Academy."

Wally felt his heart clench in his chest, mouth gaping open.

"Alfred, I can't–"

"It's already been done." The butler replied, quirking a small smirk. "The decision was made when you first arrived. You're a very intelligent lad. You deserve a proper education."

Wally was speechless, his eyes prickling with the threat of tears. Damn. He'd been wearing his emotions on his sleeves lately.

"I can't thank you guys enough."

"Think nothing of it." Alfred replied, a small smile pulling at his lips. "I'm merely glad to see you getting well. It would make Master Richard happy."

 _Dick_...

"I won't let you guys down." Wally said.

He would do his best to get better. To eat, to exercise, to look at his face in the mirror. He would try, for all of his friends, for the former heroes who still cared about him.

He would try.

* * *

Doctor Simon Frey couldn't say that he enjoyed his work...no, not really. Maybe in some deep dark, primitive part of his mind, he did, but he wouldn't say that he was a sadist. Eclipse's cause was noble, its intentions pure. Vigilantes and metas diminished the achievements of the human race, making them weak and helpless. With such heroes in place, the villains had to be stronger, had to be tougher, and when you were a little kid, whose home had been been demolished in a fight between Superman and one of his many arch enemies, it wasn't hard to see their heroics in a different light.

He fit right in with Eclipse.

However, there  _were_  things he disliked about their policies. One such matter was the treatment of vigilantes, especially the sidekicks; the ones too young to really know the ramifications of their actions. However, he still made his rounds, checking up on humans and metas alike, ignoring how they begged and pleaded for their freedom. Take away their power, and superheroes were nothing more than weaklings.  _Pretenders._

For the longest time, Richard Grayson–the former  _boy wonder_ –had refused to beg; but time had a way of wearing down even the strongest of convictions. Frey had been witness to the great Superman himself begging for his freedom...begging for the end of the experiments and the injections of Green K. He couldn't say that it hadn't been satisfying, to some degree.

"I want to go home."

Grayson had the wide eyes of a child, filled with fear and pain and sorrow. Frey held back his pity, going through with his task, disinfecting the skin of the boy's arm, trying to find a vein that was still suitable for injection. He was too young to look so damaged; barely into his teens, and already scarred beyond repair.

"You can't go home." The doc replied, pushing his glasses up his nose, before priming the syringe. "Not until you're deemed ready for rehabilitation."

Grayson was shaking, his entire body trembling–a side effect of the injections–wild, unkempt, cornered like a wounded bird, his bruised eyes wide and terrified.

"W-what do I...What do I have to do?"

Frey allowed himself a small smile.

The first step towards recovery.


	12. Metropolis

**Chapter 12: Metropolis.**

A few days after Jason woke up, Clark received a call from home.

" _I wasn't sure how to tell you..."_

Connor was gone.

Clark almost dropped the phone, his arm shaking, blood running cold.

He had warned Connor to never go near that man.  _Never._  Luthor was a snake, preying on the weak and helpless, slithering his way out of any situation; slimy, untrustworthy. And now, he had Connor wrapped up in his coils, luring him in with lies, making promises he never intended to keep.

He had to get him back.

When Clark went to tell Bruce about his departure, the man was napping in his place by the window, head lolling back, his usual guarded countenance lost in the throes of sleep. The Kryptonian hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should wake his friend, but when he thought of what Luthor might do to Connor...he pushed his reservations aside, resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder, gently shaking him awake.

"Bruce?" Clark whispered as the man blinked his cloudy eyes.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked, sitting up, straightening the blanket on his lap.

"Connor went to Metropolis." He murmured, the words catching in his throat. "He made a deal with Luthor."

"A deal?" Bruce demanded, his expression turning cold. "Why?"

Clark held back a moment, not wanting to tell his friend the truth...not wanting to add any more to his crippling guilt.

"I don't know." He said, the lie turning black in his mouth. "But, I have to go get him."

Bruce stared, and, for a moment, Clark was sure that he had been caught. Bruce was one of the greatest detectives in the world, very observant and quick...or at least he had been. There was no telling what damage had been done to his keen mind...

"Do you need a ride?" Bruce asked.

The Kryptonian wasn't sure if he was worried or relieved.

"Are you offering one of those fancy cars in your garage?" Clark replied with a soft chuckle.

"Only if you can actually drive them, Kent. Any one you want."

For a moment, the man saw a glint of mischief in his friend's eyes, and allowed himself to smile; a broad, real, smile.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." Clark said, patting Bruce on the shoulder.

He turned to leave, when he felt a tug on his sleeve, looking back at the man in the window.

"Be careful." Bruce warned, a small bit of the Bat reflecting in his eyes. "Lex is still the same as ever. It's you who's changed. Make sure you're strong enough for this."

"I am." Clark replied, pulling his arm free With one last look at his friend, the man turned away, concentrating on Connor and Lex and Metropolis...not on his old friend, so tired and changed...

* * *

Metropolis was still the same as always.

It had been his home away from home;  _His_  Gotham, his Central, or Star, or Coast cities. His place to protect. To defend.

Until, he had been forced to turn his back on it, to run away like a coward with his tail between his legs, defenseless, powerless, nothing more than  _human_. He'd had his mother to return to, but it still hurt that he couldn't find the courage to face his former co-workers, his boss, his best friend...

Lois.

Parking on the street, Clark emerged into the sunlight, putting a few quarters in the meter before storming towards Lexcorp's imposing central building. There was no telling if Connor would be there, or if Lex had even brought him to Metropolis at all. He could have just as easily taken the clone underground. With a man as twisted and corrupt as Luthor, there was no telling what his intentions were for the boy.

Entering the lobby, Clark walked up to the young receptionist, demanding to see Luthor. immediately. The young woman stammered out a reply–"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Luthor isn't taking visitors."– a shaking hand reaching for the security button beneath the desk. Clark frowned. Gone were the days when he could fly up to Lex's window, and demand him to stop his latest scheme. Gone were the days when he could defeat all of the man's hired goons single-handedly. He was no more than a man now, bound by mundane rules, and if he tried to force his way in, he would quickly be overpowered, arrested...

Shot.

The thought of his mortality twisted his gut.

"Call him." Clark demanded. "Just call him."

"Sir I–"

"Mr. Kent, why are you harassing my receptionist?"

Clark turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw Luthor standing beside him, briefcase in one hand, a twisted smirk on his lips.

"You know why."

"So you finally found out?"

"Yes. And I want to see him."

"Well..." Lex said, "Right this way, then."

Luthor beckoned him toward the elevators, and Clark followed,hands clenched in fists at his sides. Lex pressed the button for the top floor, and they were off, the glass elevator giving Clark a birds-eye view of the city...the view that was once his and his alone.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Luthor asked, still smirking. "I had this elevator installed after they released me. I found I didn't like enclosed spaces anymore."

"Let's cut to the chase." Clark snapped. "Connor–"

"–came to me willingly." Lex interrupted. "We arrived at a mutual agreement, and I sent Mercy to get him. He's been here ever since, in my penthouse, where I've been making my home."

"Doing what?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

Lex led him into a large open room, filled with fresh sunlight, and crisp, modern furniture. Clark scanned the area, finding Connor lurking in a corner, hunched over on the sofa, his nose buried in a book.

Luthor cleared his throat, and the boy looked up, a scowl forming on his face as he spotted Clark by the man's side Connor threw his book down, getting to his feet, looking healthy, unharmed, well-fed and okay. Angry, yes, but there weren't many times when he wasn't, his Kryptonian DNA rolling around in his blood like a storm.

"Why'd you come here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Clark replied, glaring at the boy. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from this man?"

"You tell me a lot of things." Connor snapped. "But, we made a deal–"

"Dick's freedom for yours."

"Something like that."

Connor crossed his arms over his chest.

Lex's smile grew, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"I thought you were happy." Clark said, trying to push back his anger. It wouldn't get him anywhere, not with Connor. "You had friends, and the farm and–"

"I'm not cut out for that life." Connor growled "I can't just sit back and be  _normal_. Heroes make sacrifices for others...and losing my powers isn't going to make me forget that."

Clark stared sadly at his former charge, nodding.

"I know...you got that from me."

Connor quirked a weak smile.

"Look," He said, with a sigh. "As long as Luthor holds up his end of the deal, I have to hold up mine."

"He's honorable, if nothing else." Lex said, bringing himself back into the conversation. Clark glared at the man, looming over him, still bigger, still stronger, still superior.

"If you do anything to hurt him, I swear–"

"It's not my intention at all, Clark." Lex replied, standing his ground. "He's as much my son as yours. Maybe I'm just getting sentimental in my old age."

Still wary–unsure, angry, upset–all rolled into one, Clark stepped back, nodding his assent, blue eyes pleading with Connor one last time.

The boy sighed, uncrossing his arms, his expression softening.

"Don't you trust me?"

"Yes." Clark replied without hesitation. He had to. If he tried to take Connor by force, the clone would simply rebel, becoming more angry, more dangerous, more resentful. Trust was important. Connor needed a chance to prove himself.

"Be careful." The Kryptonian warned, backing toward the door.

"I will be."

* * *

" _He's essentially an animal."_  Gar heard one of the docs say.  _"Although why his abilities manifested as they did is still a mystery. He appears to have Martian cultures in his blood."_

" _That would explain his transformation abilities...somewhat..."_

The boy jumped as someone tapped him on the shoulder, a smile curling over his lips when he saw the kind doc standing there, holding out a small biscuit for him to take. He thanked her softly, nearly swallowing the treat whole.

"Can you hear them?" The doc asked, pointing to the glass partition separating the two from the rest of the docs. Gar nodded.

"I've got really good hearing."

"So it seems. You could probably answer all their questions if they just asked."

Gar nodded, his smile fading.

"I'm like this because I had an accident." The boy began. "A Martian saved my life by giving me a blood transfusion...but there were..."

"Side effects?"

The boy nodded.

"That's why I am the way I am."

He was silent for a moment, fingers toying with the edge of his shirt, frown deepening as he tried to push back the memories of M'gann and his mother...of those bygone days on the ranch, feeling the dry, African sun on his face. Against his will, he started to cry, curling in on himself, fat, wet tears running down his cheeks. The nice doc shushed him, urging him to stop, taking his head in her hands, looking into his reddened eyes.

"You can't do this." She begged.

"I-I know." Gar whimpered. "But, they're not going to let me go, are they?"

"Gar..."

"Please...let me go."

The doc shook her head, drying his eyes with a tissue from her pocket.

"There's nothing I can do..." She murmured, handing him another biscuit. Gar took it, holding it in his palm as he listened to the docs in the other room.

* * *

"He won't be coming back." Luthor said, straightening his cufflinks. Connor glared at the man, before returning to his book.

"Why'd you even let him up here?"

Lex smiled.

"He needed to see you for himself." The man replied. "Clark is stubborn, and without visual proof, there's no telling what things he'd imagine me doing to you. Better to have him in the know...at least somewhat..."

"Somewhat?" Connor asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes." Lex murmured, reaching into his jacket, pulling out a velvet pouch. Suddenly wary, Connor got to his feet, the air rushing from his lungs as the man shook a small green rock onto his palm.

Green K.

Connor cried out as his legs collapsed beneath him, the muscles suddenly useless and rubbery, like jelly. He felt weak, helpless...

_Stupid._

"Did you really think I'd let you  _run_  my company?" Lex snarled, his eyes reflecting cruelly in the green light. He pushed the clone back with his shoe, chuckling darkly as Connor writhed on the floor, his entire body in agony, his teeth grinding together as he tried to hold in his screams. "Did you think that I'd give  _you_ , a botched experiment, everything? You're more of a fool than your mentor."

"You promised." The clone spat. "We had a deal."

"And I have the upper hand." Lex sneered. "You can't fight me, not as long as I have  _this_." The man hefted the green K in his palm.

"W-What are you doing to t-to do?" Connor demanded, his voice beginning to shake.

"I'm going to use you to perfect the experiment." Lex continued, seizing the boy by his inhibitor collar, smirking as he thrashed and choked. "These collars can't be removed–believe me, I've tried–but if I clone a new being–or a few dozen–I can easily topple Eclipse. Then, I can use my new Kryptonian army to take this country by force."

Connor felt like vomiting.

He'd played right into Luthor's hands, letting himself be manipulated and used. How could he have been so foolish? So trusting? Clark had warned him...so many times, but he had refused to listen. He always refused to listen.

"Don't worry." Lex said, dropping Connor's body to the floor. "I won't kill you. I have  _some_  humanity. I didn't lie when I said you were the closest thing to I son I had."

The man bent down, setting the chunk of green K on the clone's chest, before walking away.

"I'll send someone to fetch you in a bit."

Connor let out a string of curses, effectively pinned to the ground, his strength sapped.

How could he let this happen?...how could he be so foolish? Luthor was not to be trusted. Why hadn't he listened?

And now, the world would suffer.

* * *

As Clark reached his parking spot, he paused, eyes wandering to Luthor's penthouse apartment. It felt like betrayal, leaving Connor there. Maybe he should...

No. He had to trust Connor's judgement. The boy was smart, and capable, with a good heart and a good head on his shoulders. If he thought that dealing with Luthor was best, Clark would honor his judgement.

Turning away, the man climbed into the driver's side, started the engine, and left Metropolis behind.

 


	13. Blue

**Chapter 13: Blue.**

His name was Jaime Reyes.

He was fourteen years old, a citizen of El Paso, Texas, where he lived with his mother, father, and little sister.

He was a good kid. Didn't run with the wrong crowd, helped his parents around the house, did his schoolwork. When he was little, he and his friends would dress up as superheroes and run around the backyard. He was always Batman.

_His throat was raw from screaming; rigid fingers clawing at the carpet, tearing the rough fibers as he writhed and wailed, blue light burning into his retinas. There was fire between his shoulders–liquid fire–curling around his spine, wrapping tighter and tighter and tighter–_

" _Jaime!"_

Jaime had witnessed the Purge over the television; from the siege at the Watchtower, to the raid at Happy Harbor; the Gotham sweep, the Metropolis man-hunt. At first, voices had cried out against it–Discrimination! Inhumane treatment!–but...they had been silenced, and the heroes fell.

_All he could do was scream, forced to watch as blue armor crawled over his skin, blooming from the_ _**thing** _ _on his spine. It slid over his throat, over his mouth and nose, drowning out his cries, forcing him to panic in silence._

Jaime's life hadn't changed too much. It was rare for superheroes to come to Texas anyway, too busy with their bustling costal cities. He went on with his daily routine, pausing only a moment when the news broke that Robin had been taken; Robin who was only a little older than himself, who didn't have any superpowers or abilities. Robin was human.

Was anyone safe?

" _Mom..." He whispered when it was all over; when the pain had stopped. Weakly twisting his head, Jaime caught his refection in the wall mirror, sharp, yellow eyes staring back at him. Cat's eyes, with pupils like pinpricks, dark skin scrunching around them. He blinked, and the yellow eyes blinked with him._

" _Jaime?"_

Jaime let out a whimper, bleary eyes blinking open.

"The subject's waking up."

For a moment, Jaime imagined that he was floating; that he couldn't feel the thick restraints clamped around his wrists and ankles, or the cables and wires jutting from his flesh, culminating in a tangle of twisted fibers running into the scarab itself, nestled at the base of his neck. He tried to close his eyes again, tried to recall his mother and father and El Paso and home–only to hear the whoosh of his cell door being opened, and the soft clack of fancy shoes on concrete.

"Finally. You're awake, Blue." The doc called, his voice oily and slick, dirty and cold.

Jaime flinched as the man reached out, taking a fistful of hair in his hands, wrenching his neck to the side in order to get a good look at the scarab. Inside his mind, the beetle hissed, kept immobilized by the wires penetrating its shell, but still hostile, violent...

" _Look at what he's holding."_  The scarab snarled.

Jaime strained his eyes to see, spotting a heavy metal collar hooked around one of the doc's arms.

Not again...

Most of the heroes, the human ones at least, had been released soon after the Purge, with their powers negated by inhibitor collars, bringing them down to the same level as the rest of the population. At first, Jaime had hoped for release–without the armor, he could easily pass as human–only to find that Khaji-Da, the  _leech_  that had attached itself to his spine, was adept at deactivating almost anything designed to shut him down.

But, the docs kept trying...and it never ended well.

"I've got something for you, Blue." The man said, holding the collar out, letting the boy's head snap back into place. This model was thicker, heavier, with complex circuitry running along the inside panels. It would be painful to wear... _if_  it worked.

A twisted smile on his face, the man reached forward, hinging the collar open, and carefully closing it around his neck.

"There." The man soothed, his voice like sugared poison. "Let's try that one, alright?"

Jaime yelped as the collar activated, blue lighting up around the edges, small nodes pressing into his skin.

Yes. It would be  _very_ painful to wear.

"Fit alright, Blue?"

Jaime nodded, his chin hitting against the base of the collar painfully.

No. It really hurt. It was too big, too tight...but he wasn't going to say anything. It wasn't like the doc actually cared about him.

"Good." The man said, turning to leave. "We'll begin the Test then."

The Test was the same every time. They would shut down all of the the security in the room, and the docs would stand outside, staring through a window of reinforced glass, waiting for the scarab to prove their latest attempt a failure. It was always painful.

Always.

"Shutting down."

Jaime took a deep breath, closing his eyes tight.

There was a whirr as the security deactivated, and the boy dropped like a stone, his limbs free, the wires pulling back to slip painfully out of his skin. He whimpered, trying to push himself up with weak, trembling arms, preparing for the onslaught of pain as the scarab reinserted its dominance.

But, for once, everything was quiet. His skin was human, armor free. He was moving under his own volition. It had finally worked.

And then Khaji-Da started screaming

The scarab shrieked, writhing around in Jaime's mind, scratching, clawing, yelling of blood and war. The boy curled in on himself, hands tamped over his ears, trying to block out the scarab's wails as it tore him apart from the inside.

"Stop!" He cried. "Stop it!"

" _If you_ _ **humans**_ _think you can subvert my programming, you are wrong!"_

"You're going to kill me!"

As quickly as it began, the scarab fell to silence. The boy sucked in great lungfuls of air, carefully unfolding his body; relaxing. He still had control. No armor.

" _You are my host."_

"Yes." Jaime murmured beneath his breath, all too aware of the docs' eyes on him. "And if you kill me, they'll break you off my spine and take you apart. This won't stop."

" _They have paralyzed me._ "

"I'm sorry."

" _Sorry?"_

"It's an emotion."

" _I don't have time for emotion."_

"Then forget it." Jaime snapped, hearing the scarab's voice raise in pitch. "But please, don't kill me."

Khaji-Da paused, clicking softly.

" _I will spare you."_  It said.  _"You are my host."_

"I am." The boy replied, giving a sigh of relief. "If they separate us, we're both dead. We have to work together."

" _It is...mutually beneficial to do so."_

"Yes." Jaime said, flinching back as the doc entered the room, hemmed by guards on either side.

"Is it talking to you?" The doc demanded, his eyes narrowing like a cat's.

Jaime nodded as best he could around the collar.

"He's paralyzed though. Can't do a thing." The boy allowed himself a small smile. "Are you going to let me go now?"

The doc frowned, a mocking, cruel frown, holding his hands out plaintively.

"I'm sorry, Blue." He replied, shaking his head. "That thing's still too unpredictable. It could be faking."

Jaime's face fell.

"You...you promised."

The doc stepped forward, patting Jaime on the head like a dog.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. But hey. At least you don't have to be tethered up anymore. We can get you a bed, and maybe some books. It'll be just like home."

" _I want to gut this human where it stands."_

Jaime knocked the man's hand away, his stomach roiling with disappointment and fury.

"My  _home_  is in El Paso, with my family!"

The doc took a few steps back, his frown deepening.

"Blue, you have to understand–"

"My name isn't Blue! It's Jaime!"

"We'll discuss this tomorrow." The doc snapped. "If you ever want to see that family of yours again, I suggest you refrain from talking back to me. You forget who's in charge here, _ **Blue."**_

With that, the doc stormed out, the door shutting behind him with a loud *woosh*, leaving Jaime all alone in the harsh, bright lights of his cell.

"My name's not Blue..." He whispered into the air, burying his head in his hands. He'd gone on for months, holding onto his dreams of freedom, clinging to the doc's hollow promises of rehabilitation and release. The collar around his neck was cold and cumbersome, too impossible to ignore. He felt like a dog...he'd never be free.

" _Your name is Jaime Reyes..."_  The scarab murmured, almost tentatively.

"Yes." Jaime replied, lifting his head, eyes boring into the wall. "And yours is Khaji-Da."

Khaji-Da chirped in affirmation, its limbs twitching slightly where they met the skin of his back. It felt like needles poking into his flesh, but the boy had gotten used to the feeling.

" _Tell me of this world."_

Jamie quirked a slight smile.

"Doesn't your programming tell you everything?"

" _Some of it is...corrupt."_

"Oh." The boy replied. "When then...this planet is Earth..."

* * *

Jason pressed a tentative hand against his side, fingertips carefully prodding the stitches. He smiled when he was met with only minimal pain. He was healing.

Now was a good time to make his escape.

He couldn't stay any longer. He felt too vulnerable, forced to put his trust in strangers, kept at the mercy of the former Batman and his bitter household. They could just as easily decide to turn him in, slip some sedative into his food or drink, and wait for the white van to show up.

No. Jason was not going to give them the chance.

Sliding out from beneath the downy comforter, the boy got to work, snatching a pillowcase from the bed, gathering all the the butler's medical supplies, along with the packages of saltines and the fancy bottles of ginger ale he had hoarded from his meals. He padded into the bathroom, snagging the toothbrush and toiletries he'd been given, before moving to the closet, frowning when he saw that it was bare. That butler had been dressing him in awful ankle-long nightgowns, old things that smelled like mothballs and age. He couldn't go back to the streets looking like that. Shoes were another problem.

Slinging the pillowcase over his shoulder, Jason crept into the hallway, slinking along until he came to a dark room, but one that looked as though it was inhabited; circus posters on the wall, papers scattered over a desk, trophies and awards lined up atop a bookshelf...and clothes in the closet.

Whoever the room's inhabitant was, they weren't much bigger than Jason, taller yes, but the black jeans and soft green hoodie fit well enough. The shoes he found were very loose, but they would do until he could get back to his basement hideaway. Chucking the nightgown aside, Jason paused, standing up to really  _look_  at his surroundings...

It was Robin's room...Dick Grayson's room...and it didn't look like anyone had been home in a while.

"What are you doing?"

Jason turned, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, finding Alfred blocking his escape, yet another bowl of steaming soup balanced on a tray in his hands. Jason's grip tightened on the pillowcase, muscles tensing as he prepared to defend himself, coiling like a spring.

"I'm just getting out of your hair." The boy snapped. "Thanks for the hospitality and all, but I have work to do."

"If you go out there again, you  _will_  be caught." Alfred continued, still blocking the door, his face impassive, fearless. "I've seen what things Eclipse can do to a man. You would not survive."

Jason shook his head, preparing to strike, hefting the pillowcase off of the ground.

"They were weak."

Alfred's face darkened, the tray shaking in his hands, his entire countenance shifting until he looked like a rubber band about to snap.

"Those  _weaklings_  saved your life." The man spat. "Because of  _your_  carelessness Master Richard was taken away, and Master Bruce is devastated. I wanted nothing more than to deliver you, costume and all, right to Eclipse's door. Then, maybe this family could start coming back together again."

Jason's eyes widened, his breath hitching.

"What?"

Alfred gave a curt nod, his expression still blazing with barely contained fire.

"Eclipse obtained footage of  _Robin_  running along the rooftops. So, they came and took  _Robin_  away."

The boy dropped the pillowcase, ignoring the loud clatter as his stolen goods hit the ground. He suddenly felt dirty, wearing Grayson's clothes; his hoodie, his jeans, his shoes, standing in the place where the boy should have been, stealing not only his things, but his freedom too. Stealing his life.

"I didn't know." He said, shoulders slumped, still trying to keep anger in his eyes, unwilling to show total weakness. "I didn't mean–"

"I know that." Alfred replied. "That's why I didn't let you bleed out. It would have been so easy." The man's face softened slightly, his eyes filing with sorrow. "But death is never the answer. Especially not the death of one so young. It would not bring us any peace."

Jason wanted to run. He felt like there was a spotlight focussed right on him, holding him in place, making all of his failings bright and raw.

"I can't stay here." The boy said, taking a few steps toward the door. "I'll just go, and be out of your hair forever–"

"You won't." Alfred replied, holding his ground. "You're in the home of one of this era's greatest detectives, and I'd have to say I've picked up a few tricks."

The boy wrapped his arms around him, suddenly filled with dread.

"When you were still out of it, you told me that your name was Jason Todd." The butler continued. "I searched your name using a newspaper database, and found that you had gone missing from a boy's home after..."

Jason wanted to melt into the floor; to not be stared down by this sad, old man. He didn't want pity. He wanted justice.

"Where are you living?"

"It's none of your business." The boy snapped.

"The streets of Gotham are no place for a child."

"They're better than being here." Jason cried. "I  _ruined_  everything for you. I can't...I can't..."

The words caught in his throat, choked by bottled up emotion.

"I can't stay here knowing that I  _fucked_  everything up."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow, his frown deepening.

"Language, Master Todd."

"Don't call me that."

The butler sighed, shaking his head, suddenly exasperated more than anything.

"Stay here for a little while, at least." He said. "Go to your room, drink this soup, and rest. I will work on finding someplace else for you to stay, but please–promise me you will not try to be Robin again."

Reluctantly, Jason nodded, picking up the discarded pillowcase on the floor.

"Fine." He grumbled, dragging it along the carpet.

Alfred smiled slightly, ushering the boy back to his room.

"There's another thing I'll need your help with..."

 


	14. Burned Bridges

**Chapter 14: Burned Bridges.**

The boy didn't look anything like him.

The strong jaw, the dark hair, the heavy build–all of it–screamed Kal-El.  _Superman_. Not a Luthor. Never a Luthor. He was too easily controlled by his emotions, worn down and reeled in by a mere promise; a promise that–in the end–Lex  _would_  have to keep...in order to not rouse Clark's suspicions. However, it was a small price to pay to finally build his army.

Lex pressed his hand against cool glass, watching as the boy's lazing eyes flickered open, heavy and confused, his mind clogged by drugs and kryptonite. For a moment, the clone silently pleaded with him, his face filled with agony and fear. But then, his expression twisted into anger as he clone pulled himself to his unstable feet, eyes shining bright with fury.

Lex chuckled.

The boy was weak; too used to relying on his inhuman strength, too used to leaning on the crutch of his given DNA. Eclipse had grounded him, stripped him of his abilities...made him vulnerable.

"Don't struggle, Kon-El." Luthor said, eyeing the spectacle with a smirk. "You'll only hurt yourself.

The boy screamed, pounding his fists against the glass again and again and again, until his knuckles bled, spatters of red blotting the clear surface. He cursed and swore and raged, his eyes filled with white-hot fury, his words garbled and intelligible through the thick glass. Lex watched him with an air of calm, stepping away from the holding chamber, running his hand over a set of controls, coming to stop over a large green button.

"You Kryptonians always react with violence." He spat, locking eyes with the clone as the boy collapsed, having driven himself to the brink of exhaustion. "The human race looked to aliens and metahumans to be their salvation. And perhaps they were..."

He drew his hand away from the button, satisfied that Kon-El was momentarily subdued by his own anger.

"However, that is no longer the case."

He turned to leave, only to pause, looking back at the clone, who had somehow managed to drag himself to his feet, pressing one bloodied hand against the glass in a feeble attempt to steady himself.

There was pure hate in his eyes. A sharp, burning hate. The kind that comes from being betrayed and pushed down; beaten, damaged, unloved. Lex felt something in his chest twist, a twinge of sudden familiarity. He knew that look. He'd seen it reflected in his own eyes as the world continued to break him; as Superman continued to be adored, while his own genius was constantly punished. On the outside, Kon-El might appear to be all Clark...but inside...

Lex scoffed, slamming his hand down on the green button, ignoring the sounds of Connor's muffled screams.

That bridge had been burned. There was no going back.

He would have his army...and the world would  _finally_  be his.

* * *

"I don't know how you did it, Dick..." Wally murmured, staring down at the crisp, new, school uniform folded on the corner of his bed. His entire life, he'd been a public school kid, wearing nothing but t-shirts and jeans with ragged, dirty sneakers. He'd gotten the bare minimum of education, going through every day bored and disinterested. He'd learned the hard way that boredom was dangerous. It led him to do rash, impulsive things...

He wasn't going to be bored anymore.

Dutifully, he pulled on his dress pants. His socks. His shoes. He slipped on his white dress shirt, struggling with its small pearl buttons. After some frustrated fumbling, he turned, looking to the mirror for help...pausing when he spotted the heavy collar around his neck, just sitting against his paled skin. Swallowing thickly, the boy did the buttons all the way up to his throat, trying to hide it as best he could...but it wasn't enough. The edges poked through, dark, incriminating. He could still see it.  _Everyone_  could still see it.

He tried to pull up the collar of his shirt, tugging at the fabric, stretching, yanking. He didn't want to be pitied. He didn't want to be shunned. He didn't want people's eyes to snap straight to his neck. He didn't want to–

"Master Wallace, are you alright?"

And then, Alfred was at his shoulder; Alfred who always seemed to be there right when he needed him, a comforting presence, a voice of reason. The boy drew his hands away from his shirt, staring at the rumpled fabric in the mirror.

"I don't want anyone to see." He murmured.

Alfred was silent for a moment, his lips pulled into a sorrowful frown. And then, without a word, he nodded his understanding, crossing to the dresser, tugging open one drawer and rummaging around inside. He pulled out a white handkerchief, shutting the drawer, and smiling softly.

"Let's try this." He said, wrapping the cloth around the speedster's neck, folding the edges beneath the collar, tying it at the back.

"It won't hide everything but it'll help."

Wally plucked at the silk with his fingers, before looking at his reflection in the mirror again, satisfied with what he saw.

"Will the headmaster mind?" He asked.

"If anyone gives you any trouble, I'm sure I can get it sorted out." Alfred said with a subtle smile. "You just worry about your schoolwork."

Wally returned a smile of his own, pulling the navy blue blazer from the bed, shrugging it on over his shoulders.

"Then let's get going." He said.

His stomach was twisting and turning, roiling with barely contained fear humming just beneath his skin. But...this was something that he had to do.

" _Speedster's move foreword."_  Barry had once told him.  _"They don't look back, and they absolutely do not stop."_

Keeping his uncle's words close, Wally trailed on Alfred's heels, ready to start a new day.

* * *

_He was sitting alone, surrounded by dusty, yellow books, lost in the recesses of some thick tome, his fingers delicately turning brittle, yellowed pages. His eyes scanned over faded illustrations of desert sands and beautiful maidens; of intricate, winding, vines, twisting around inkings of treasures and hidden paradises. The images, so brightly colored, stood out against the dark, drab, Gotham sky. He felt something clench within him, a sharp, agonizing longing that no amount of distraction could cure._

_That was when a servant came to the library door, a strange figure in tow, dressed in heavy green. Tim remembered being blindly afraid of the man, a sense of wrongness rolling from the stranger in waves, the wisdom of centuries reflecting in his eyes. The boy wanted to run, back into the safety of his fictional world, but there was nowhere to go..._

Tim blinked heavy eyes, burying his face deeper into his downy pillow, trying to slip back into peaceful sleep. However, his mind was racing, spinning; a mess of broken words and shattered images. Had he not taken his medication? He should know better. It'd been a long time since he'd had a natural sleep.

Rolling over, the boy opened his eyes, trying to focus on the clock by his bedside...

But, it wasn't there.

Tim was instantly on the alert, suddenly all too aware of the cotton fluff clogging his mind; the fuzzy, muzzy, feeling of drugsleaving his system. He was awake enough to take in his surroundings, to see that he was in a small, sparsely furnished, windowless room, sprawled out on a stiff, twin mattress thrown carelessly onto the floor. The walls were concrete, moisture seeping through the cracks and pores. The floor was covered in moldy, stained carpet.

Tim struggled to sit up, his limbs heavy and leaden, bruises forming where he'd previously been tied. It hurt to move his left arm, and, upon closer inspection, he found that it was wrapped in blood-stained bandages. He wasn't wearing the dress clothes he'd fallen asleep in–just a simple t-shirt and sweats–and the thought of someone undressing him sent a shiver up his spine.

The door was made of heavy iron, out of place in the run-down–but otherwise normal–room. He hadn't just been dumped someplace. This was a holding cell; a prison. His suspicions were only confirmed when he looked up, and found himself staring into the cold, lifeless lens of a surveillance camera, its red led light flashing lazily, letting him know that, yes, he _was_  being recorded, and, perhaps, someone was even watching him.

Panicking, Tim searched for a weapon, but found nothing of use, only soft pillows and rough sheets. His hand pressed down on the mattress, feeling nothing but stuffing and foam; no coiled springs that he could rip out and use to defend himself.

Dread settled in the boy's gut.

This wasn't any normal kidnapping.

He'd been warned that this could happen; that, someday, any meta he failed to track down could–and  _would–_  find him. But, his name wasn't in any public Eclipse files. None of the soldiers ever saw him. He kept to himself, in his room of computer monitors and cables, ghosting around the compound, following leads, demanding information. He'd felt untouchable.

And honestly, who would ever suspect  _him_  of being an important part of such a prolific organization? He wore his pin on his lapel, yes, but so did his father, and a lot of others who supported the cause. It wasn't an uncommon thing to see on the streets.

Tim flinched as the metal door screeched open, fighting the urge to hide beneath the sheets. Instead, he grabbed one of the pillows, pulling it tight against his chest; a layer of protection against the unknown.

"So, you're Tim Drake?"

Standing in the doorway was a boy, about his age, with scruffy black hair and blue saucer eyes. He was swimming in a red sweater–far too big for his thin body–with the cuffs of his ill-fitting blue jeans pooling around his scuffed sneakers.

When Tim didn't answer, the boy quirked an eyebrow, pushing the door shut with a sharp kick.

"I'm supposed to watch you." He said, setting the tray down on the edge of the mattress, pointing at the camera in the corner. "I thought you'd be hungry though."

Tim was famished, but the mushy TV dinner of turkey and gravy looked anything but appealing. Besides, he had more important things to deal with. He knew who this boy was. He'd seen him staring back from the bright screen of his monitors, one of the heroes who had managed to fall off the map instead of into Eclipse's hands.

"Billy Batson." Tim murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Captain Marvel.

The boy smirked, nodding.

"He said you'd know who I was."

Tim frowned.

"Who?"

"I'm not supposed to tell." Billy replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "I just have to make sure you don't go anywhere."

"How long am I supposed to stay here?"

Billy shrugged.

"Until he says you can leave."

Tim's stomach sank, and he held the pillow tighter against his chest, turning away from his would-be jailer. Billy Batson might be nothing more than a bumbling kid, but his alter-ego was fueled by powerful, ancient magic. Unlike Superman, who was weak to kryptonite, and required the sun's rays to replenish his strength, Captain Marvel had no such holdback. He was an off-kilter child with the power of a god, and Tim was at his mercy, helpless until someone should find him.

"Just knock on the door if you need anything." Billy said. Tim didn't reply, burying his face in the pillow, taking deep, calming breaths in an attempt to keep back the tears.

He was scared.

The door shut with a clang.


	15. Sea Monster

**Chapter 15: Sea Monster  
**

" _I don't think they're even close to talking Barry."_

The man smiled sadly in the glow of the monitors, tired blue eyes watching his wife as she pulled her cell phone closer to his children's cribs, letting him catch a short, painful glimpse of their slumbering, rosy faces.

"Red hair." Barry chuckled, "They're going to look just like their mama."

" _Don has your appetite."_ Iris smiled, setting the phone atop a dresser, pulling a blue-clad baby from the warmth of his soft bed.

Don. His son.

The thought was still so strange.

Don cooed, eyes blinking sleepily as he nestled in his mother's safe arms. Barry smiled sadly at the sight. He wanted to reach through the screen and touch his son's soft hair. To hold both of his children tight. To rock them to sleep. He didn't want to be a face on a glass screen; nothing more than a stranger. He wanted to be there every step of the way.

But he was missing so much.

" _Are you doing alright?"_ Iris asked, setting Don back into his crib, moving to sooth his twin sister, Dawn, who was beginning to fuss.

"I'm fine." Barry said, eyes flickering to the surveillance monitor. The prisoner–though it felt wrong to call a mere  _kid_  a prisoner–was curled up on the bed, wiping a hand across his face. Wiping away  _tears_. "We just had a real success, but I'm not too proud of it."

" _Barry–"_

"I'm going to do what I have to do in order to get home. In order for..." The man swallowed thickly, scrubbing a hand over his own face. "In order for our children to live in a world safe for metas."

" _You need to be careful."_

"I will." The speedster said, forcing a small smile. "I'm going to make it home to you, I swear.

"Within the year, Eclipse will be gone. I promise."

Barry blew his wife a kiss, cooing soft goodbyes to his children, before cutting off the feed, finding himself painfully alone.

"Tim didn't eat." Billy Batson said, his voice cutting through the gloom as he walked towards the monitors. He held a full tray in his hands, frowning deeply.

"What a waste." The boy said, poking at the cold meat.

"You're not going to eat that are you?" Barry asked as Billy took his place in front of the surveillance screen.

"Well, I'm not going to throw it away." The boy replied, sticking a fork in a head of broccoli. "I lived in a cardboard box for a month. I've eaten worse.

Barry allowed himself a small chuckle, getting out of is own seat.

"Have you seen M'gann?" He asked.

Billy shook his head.

The Speedster sighed.

"Power grid's running low. I have to go take care of that. Just keep an eye on Drake."

"Sure, Mr. Allen." Billy replied, before gnawing on a slice of turkey covered in congealed gravy. The man shook his head, padding away from the monitors.

"I'll be back in a little while. Let me know if there're any problems."

* * *

"You're not gonna send me off to school too, are ya?"

Jason cautiously watched Alfred out of the corner of his eye, quickly drying the bone white china plate in his hands, gently setting it in the dish drainer, before taking another from the old man.

"Education's important, Master Jason." Alfred replied, quirking a small smile. "However, it might be best to wait until we find a more permanent home for you."

"Oh...yeah."

They fell to silence, working through the plates from breakfast: a heavy meal of sausage and eggs, with warm biscuits ladled with savory white gravy, and cool, fresh orange juice. It had only been a few weeks, but already, Jason could feel himself filling out, his bones no longer poking through the skin. It felt good to be fed, and to have unlimited access to a fully stocked kitchen. Often, he spent his afternoons munching on sandwiches and fruit, relishing in the feeling of a full belly and the luxury of fresh food. It'd been so long since he'd been _comfortable._

It'd been so long since he'd been  _safe._

"After this, could you help me with the vacuuming, Master Jason?"Alfred asked, drying his hands on a stray dishrag.

"Yeah, okay. The boy replied, finishing up on the last dish. In reality, vacuuming was one of the few chores he really didn't mind. It allowed him to run through the long hallways of the manor, headphones clamped over his ears as he listened to pounding rock on the MP3 player he'd found on his pillow one morning.

"I need you to take care of the halls, as well as the bedrooms on the second floor. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, yeah." Jason said, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. "Piece of cake."

Alfred let out an exasperated sigh, going back to his work in the kitchen.

* * *

Coast City was beautiful; its ocean sparkling and clear, the sand bright and clean...but, it would never compare to their private little beach by the mountain, where the sand was coarse, and the water cold and dark. M'gann missed those times–happier times–when she and the team would hang out all day, building sandcastles and collecting seashells. She had kept all the shells she found in a box beneath her bed–each one pearly pink and silver– and on cold winter nights, she would pull it out, and remember...

The box was probably gone, or destroyed, or possibly seized after Eclipse stormed the mountain. She hadn't been there when it'd happened–off at cheerleading practice–but...Connor and Kaldur had. They'd been taken, and M'gann had come home to a burning wreckage. The martian shuddered.

She didn't like remembering.

Earth wasn't the wonderful place she'd seen on television...but, she had already known that. However, it  _had_  been filled with kind people, metas and vigilantes who didn't care that she was different. She'd found a family who cared about  _who_  she was, not  _what_  she was, and earth had quickly become her home.

Before Eclipse had arrived...and ruined everything.

It was still early spring, but that didn't matter here. Families were already out on the beach, laughing and playing and basking in the sun. M'gann watched them, invisible–for the most part–sitting atop a rocky outcropping, loneliness sitting like a lump in her chest. It'd been several weeks since J'onn hadn't come home, several weeks of waiting and hoping, until one day, she simply gave up and moved on, calling out for any of her friends that would listen. In the end, it was little Billy Batson who answered, telling her where to go.

And here she was.

The Flash had managed to set up camp in an abandoned vacation complex, left devastated by one of the state's infamous earthquakes. It was both quaint and eerie, surrounded by barbed wire fencing and angry red signs, but there was plenty of space for all of them, even though they only used one building out of dozens. They didn't have a lot of people to house...and, to M'gann, they were mostly strangers; lesser-known metas who had either fallen under the radar, or who had never gone public in the first place. Her friends were all collared, or missing, or...

Suddenly, commotion erupted on the beach, and M'gann stood, eyes scanning the water to see what was the cause, a habit learned from her time as a hero. There was a fin poking out; sickly gray tipped with black. Not a shark's fin, not a dolphin's fin...something else.

Raising a hand to her temple, M'gann mentally ran through the beach-goer's panicked minds, trying to find the  _thing_  that was causing all the trouble. If it  _was_  a monster, she would have to silently drive it back to sea, to spare all these people the danger.

– _Get out of my head!–_ A voice snarled in her ear, lashing out weakly at the intrusion.

– _NO.–_ M'gann snapped, pushing harder. – _You need to get away from this beach. You're scaring all these people!–_

– _Let them be_ _ **scared**_ _.–_ The monster replied, his voice filled with venom. – _Those land-rats deserve to be scared after what they did to our prince!–_

M'gann gasped, her eyes snapping open.

– _Your prince?–_ She asked.

– _Yes. Kaldurahm._ _ **Your**_ _kind called him Aqualad.–_

The creature's words were filled with distain for the title, but not for the man who had carried it. M'gann felt her stomach sink as her thoughts grew panicked. She suddenly knew what she was dealing with. Not some monster from the depths of the sea. It was an Atlantian. One of King Orin's court!

– _You have to listen to me!–_ M'gann cried, her thoughts urgent as she watched the fin continue its approach to the shore. – _I was one of Kaldur's friends; Miss Martian, and I was a member of Young Justice before the Purge. If you come up on the shore right now, Eclipse will take you down. You won't even reach the city.–_

– _Let them come.–_ The Atlantian hissed.

M'gann growled with frustration.

– _You don't know what they'll do to you!–_ She screamed. – _If you even want to have a chance to save Kaldur, you need to listen to me. Getting yourself captured will only endanger Atlantis more!–_

She watched as the fin paused, bobbing up and down in the water.

– _You better not be lying.–_

– _I'm not.–_  M'gann assured. – _I know where a safe place is. but you have to go back into the ocean until it gets dark. Then, meet me here.–_

– _Okay–_ The creature grumbled. – _It better not be a trap...–_

– _It's not. But, you should tell me your name.–_

There was a pause, before the Atlantian replied:

– _L'gann.–_

* * *

When Jason reached Dick Grayson's room...he quickly discovered that he was not alone.

Bruce Wayne was sitting at the end of Grayson's bed, a green hoodie–the one Jason had tried to steal–held tight in his shaking hands. The man's posture was broken, his spine bent, and head held low, silently mourning in the dark. There were other things strewn over the bedspread; a few medals, an old battered journal, a couple newspaper articles, and one lone pair of dark sunglasses.

Jason shifted nervously, unsure of what to do, pulling the headphones from his ears, and shutting off the vacuum. He hadn't seen Wayne out of his room since he'd come to the manor. The man spent his days alone, staring out the window like a sick dog; watching, waiting.

But now...here he was...

"Alfred told me to vacuum in here." Jason said, his voice more timid than he expected. Wayne's eyes snapped to his face, cold and icy and  _unhinged_. There was an untamed madness there, barely kept contained by his damaged body. Jason wanted to run, to abandon the manor and go back to his simple little cellar in crime alley. Not be here...anywhere but here.

There was still some of the Bat inside of Bruce just  _waiting_  to break free.

"I don't want you touching this room." The man growled, his voice low and animalistic, hissing through clenched teeth. Jason felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, fear racing in his blood.

This was the Bat. This was all the Bat.

"I was just doing what Alfred said." Jason snapped, trying to hold his ground, despite the primal voice in his head screaming to run.

"You've done enough." Bruce hissed.

"No I haven't."

Wayne glared at him; a look that had once sent criminals running in terror. Jason steeled himself, balling his fists at his sides. This man couldn't hurt him. Not in his broken body. Jason'd spent his whole life letting people push him around. No more.

No more.

"I'm sorry for what happened to Dick." He began. "But don't take it out on me. All I did was help people that the police couldn't."

_People like my mother..._

Bruce narrowed his eyes, but didn't speak, instead turning back to the hoodie in his hands, worrying at the fabric.

"I know you don't want me here." Jason said. "I get that. But, until I have someplace to go, you're stuck with me. I promised Alfred."

"What about your parents?"

Jason scoffed.

"My dad was a deadbeat, and my mom..."

He paused, struggling to speak, unintentionally ripping open a wound he had only too recently sewn shut. Gunshots rang in his ears, sudden, and loud and  _final_.

There hadn't been any screams. Only complete silence.

"She's gone."

He wasn't sure when his words had become choked with tears, but he could feel them, running warm down his face. He'd never talked about what had happened that night. There hadn't really been anyone to talk to.

Opening his eyes, he could see that Wayne was staring again, but the anger had faded. Slowly, the man set the hoodie aside, reaching for his cane, painstakingly pulling himself to his feet. There was no wheelchair in sight, so he must have walked to the room on his own. Jason wondered how long it had taken him.

He then realized that he'd never seen the man walk.

Wayne walked with a limp, one leg completely immobile, the other one struggling along beside it. His steps were short, stuttering. Jason backed away as the man made his slow approach, watching him warily, a small part of him wondering if it was all an act.

"Just, please stay away from this room." Wayne said as he stepped into the hallway. "I'll talk to Alfred, he'll understand."

"Sure."

Jason didn't wait to see if the man made it safely back to his place by the window. He simply tamped his headphones over his ears, and switched on the vacuum, moving on to the next room.

* * *

_The circus had always been brightly lit; the harsh stage-lights bearing down on him as he stood, towering stories above the sand and dirt floor of the big top. It was exhilarating, a rush, the feeling of wind whipping through his hair, trying to pull him back as he leapt forward, chalked hands gripping the metal trapeze as tightly as they could. Muscles flexed as he twirled around the bar, throwing himself into the air in the ultimate leap of faith, reaching forward to take the gentle hands he knew would be waiting for him._

_He saw his mother's face and smiled, letting her hold his life in her grasp._

" _I've got you, Robin." She said. "I won't let go..."_

* * *

Dick curled in on himself, keening softly, fingers tangling in his thick, matted hair. Darkness pressed in on all sides; its slimy cold hands reaching out to pull on his skin and clothes, trying to drag him under. All he could do was scream–tearing his throat raw– as he was slowly swallowed up by the  _nothing_  all around him. No light. No sound. Only what was inside of his head.

He hadn't known that, when he began his slow decent into the night, it would someday consume him; that he'd be thrown into a darkness so absolute, not even his own screams could reach him.

 _('You're wearing silencing implants.',_  a soft voice whispered. ' _That's why you can't hear yourself'.)_

He only screamed louder.

Then, orange flashed through his closed lids.

Light.

There was light out there, in his cell, where, before, there had only been darkness. Dick tried to see–for the first time in too long–but his eyes refused to stay open, shying away from the blinding white. He'd grown accustomed to nothing; to being as blind as the bats that used to live beneath the manor. It would take time to adjust, to acclimate to sight again.

Blinking through tears, Dick managed to crack open his lids just enough to make out a figure standing before him, a man with one eye, smirking, saying words that he couldn't hear.

But he'd learned enough about lip-reading from Bruce to know what was being said...

" _You're going home, little bird."_


	16. Homecoming

**Chapter Sixteen: Homecoming.**

Dick's vision was blurred–his eyes unused to the light–but he didn't have to see clearly to recognize his would-be rescuer.

Eye-patch. Close-cropped white hair. Scarred face.

Even without his usual trappings, Dick knew who the man was. He'd seen his face in the LED screen of the batcomputer, staring down at him with one scrutinizing grey eye.

Slade Wilson...

Dick had been young when he'd first stumbled upon the mercenary's file, unused to the Joker's wild games, or Two-Face's multi-faceted cruelty. Slade was murderer, a gun for hire; a ruthless man with equally ruthless strength. Ageless, powerful,  _immortal_.

Dick didn't have the strength to fight him now, weak as a kitten from his time in the dark. He couldn't even put up a struggle as Slade pulled the silencing implants from his ears, explaining–in a voice much too soft to belong to a hardened assassin–that he'd been in solitary confinement for several days.

Only several days? It felt like longer. Much longer...more like an eternity. But, as he couldn't recall eating or drinking in the dark, he knew that it had to be true.

He'd broken so easily.

"You're going home, kid." The assassin said, pulling him up by one arm. "Boss's orders."

And that was when Dick saw the metal pin fastened to the collar of the man's uniform; the silver earth overshadowed by the moon...

" _You taking orders from_ _ **them**_ _now?"_  He wanted to hiss, but his throat was raw from screaming, and his voice came out only as a strangled rasp. He suddenly felt like he was choking, his mouth dry from lack of water, his tongue thick and heavy against fuzzy teeth. As if on cue, Slade pressed a canteen to his parched lips, pouring in a small amount of cool water that didn't feel like it was nearly enough.

"If you drink too fast, you'll just throw it up." The man said, pulling the container away, hooking it back to his belt. "You're dehydrated. You have to adjust."

Once again, Dick tried to snap a witty retort, but his voice still refused to cooperate. Slade chuckled, as if sensing his intent.

"Good thing you're going home, little bird. They never could have broken you..."

The man's smirk grew, his remaining eye gleaming with a cruelty that twisted Dick's empty stomach.

"It's a shame, really. I'd have liked to have had the chance to try."

Dick panicked, trying to yank his arm out of the assassin's iron grip, remembering information that he hadn't learned from Bruce's database...Things he'd heard from heroes who had their own experiences tangling with the mercenary.

Slade was manipulative. He was unforgiving. He was sneaky and intelligent and unhinged. He'd trained several proteges in the past, children around the same age as Dick. Sometimes, those children were his own, but other times...they were strays he bolstered up and threw into the slaughter. Dick couldn't imagine a life like that...a soldier in some cruel man's war. It was different with Bruce. It was different.

They were always a family.

Slade grabbed his arm again, pulling the boy from the room, nearly carrying him when his unused legs gave out. He could still barely see, but the light didn't hurt as much as it had before. Slowly, surely, his eyes were adjusting. It would just take time.

He knew that–even if he tried to run, even if his legs would hold up and he wouldn't collapse–he couldn't get away. Slade was too fast, too strong. Dick was weak and starved, and nearly blind. He didn't stand a chance.

It wasn't long before he was bundled into the back seat of a black sedan with dark, tinted windows, wearing clean, pre-packaged clothing; his ruined suit from the gala folded clumsily in his lap. He nervously pulled at the stiff fabric with weak fingers, before pulling the jacket to his chest. It still smelled like home, like the heavy cologne Bruce had brought him back from Paris, like the stale halls of the mansion, like mothballs, and disuse and age. It wasn't a very old suit at all, but everything in the manor aged quickly...

Slade was driving. It seemed like too mundane a task for such a dangerous man...but there had to be a reason...Eclipse always had a reason.

Suddenly, Dick was bombarded of images of Slade's past crimes. He saw lifeless bodies, men with missing limbs, the one-man massacres that had made is "rescuer" so infamous. _Home_  could mean anything Eclipse wanted it to.  _Home_ could be a ditch, or a sewer.  _Home_  could be a prison even worse than the one he'd just left.  _Home_  could be Slade's hideout, and he could simply be just another child soldier in his crusade. The boy held the suit tighter to his chest, shaking violently. Slade glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, quirking an eyebrow at the boy as he huddled against the locked car door.

"What's wrong with you?" The assassin asked, in that all-too-softvoice.

"Where are we going?" Dick croaked, every word like needles stabbing into his throat.

"Wayne Manor." Slade replied, chuckling softly again. "Did you think that I was going to leave your body in some gutter?"

The boy nodded.

Slade scoffed, shaking his head.

"I'm insurance, little bird. The boss doesn't trust anyone else to get you there in one piece. So, you can shut your eyes, and sleep. It's several hours to Gotham."

Dick didn't feel anymore at ease...not until he saw the towering Gotham skyscrapers on the horizon, not until he saw the smog hanging low over the ground, not until he was being driven through the dark streets, the streets he had once known so well.

Home.

He was really going home...

* * *

It was late at night, and Wally was sitting at the desk in front of his bedroom window, working his way through a page of calculus problems. He was slower at it than he had once been–out of practice and clumsy–and darkness had silently fallen as he plodded along, page after page flowing faster and faster through his fingertips. Work was good. It kept him busy. Occupied. When he was solving formulas and equations, he could forget where he was and how he'd gotten there. He could forget the collar around his neck...Barry's face as he told him to run.

Wally looked up from his work, staring up at the few stars bold enough to peek through the heavy Gotham haze. Things were so different now...

It was then, that he saw a car moving up the driveway. It was sleek and black, its headlights shining brightly through the wrought iron gate separating the manor from the outside world. To his surprise, the gates swung open, and the car entered the property, coasting slowly along, like a panther in sight of its prey.

Wally felt unease creep up in his gut, as he pushed away from the desk, hurrying into the hallway. Who could it be? It had to be someone who knew the code...

Unless...

Wally raced to the stairs (as fast as he could these days), hanging over the banister in an attempt to identify the silent figure slipping into the foyer.

His heart stopped.

"Dick?" He called into the darkness, his voice echoing off of hollow marble. The figure looked upward, pale face illuminated in the moonlight, looking worn and tired and scared, but still, it was Dick. He'd come home. He'd come home.

The former speedster nearly stumbled down the stairs, his heart stuttering in his chest as he pushed himself harder than he had in months. He grabbed at Dick's arms, ignoring how he could feel bone, ignoring how once powerful muscle had all but vanished. His friend was home. Finally.

"Wally." The other boy rasped, forcing a smile. "You're out of your room."

He sounded like he'd been gargling sawdust and nails. It had to be painful.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." Wally replied. "I'm doing better."

"I'm glad."

Upon closer inspection, Dick didn't look too good...not at all. He was wobbling on unsteady feet, his eyes blinking open and closed, as though he was trying to stave off sleep. His hair was unwashed and matted in places, his skin sallow and marked with mysterious scars. Wally moved forward, supporting his friend as he led him to the elevator; guiding him, urging him to take small steps.

"Bruce is going to be so happy to see you." The speedster said, forcing a smile, even though his stomach was rolling in turmoil. His friend  _wasn_ 't okay. But, honestly, what had he expected? It'd been weeks since Dick had gone missing; weeks that he'd spent in Eclipse's hands. Wally remembered what it was like...what he'd gone through.

Dick gave a weak smile of his own, eyes sliding shut.

"Bruce..." He murmured in a crackling whisper.

Wally swallowed thickly.

How would either of them react, seeing the other in such a state? Bruce had wasted away, while Dick was tortured, and injured, and hurt. Neither one was the same as when they had last seen each other.

...Wally could only hope that the encounter would be okay...that both of them would be okay.

He could only hope.

* * *

"You really should get into bed, Master Bruce." Alfred said, calmly putting away their chessboard, careful with the ornate miniature statues of marble and obsidian. They were old; relics of long forgotten extravagance; weathered and worn, like everything else in the manor.

"Let me sit up for a little but longer, Alfred."

The butler gave a small, sad frown, shaking his head.

"I better not find you there in the morning."

"Of course not."

They went through the same motions every night; Bruce making hollow promises, Alfred wandering away in abject defeat. Bruce had made little progress in getting away from the window, still holding onto his stubborn nature, even in his frailty. He wanted to watch, to wait, to hope that, if he just looked down at the empty, cracked driveway one more time, Dick would be there, waiting for him to open the door.

However, with each passing night, it became less about hope, and more about habit. Alfred could see it in his young master's eyes; the defeat, the loss. He was giving up...but he was not moving on. Bruce Wayne  _didn't_  move on. He'd never learned how to, and Alfred had failed to teach him...

Alfred finished cleaning up, taking an empty mug of tea from his master's hands, pursing his lips as the man's eyes fluttered shut. He was tired. He needed rest, but there was no arguing with such a stubborn soul. No arguing with Bruce Wayne...

"Mr. Wayne? Alfred?"

The Butler turned to the door, raising his eyebrows as he saw Wally West peeking in, clutching nervously at the half-open door.

"Master Wallace, is everything alright?"

The boy smiled softy, nodding as he pushed the door open further...only to reveal someone that the manor had sorely missed...

Alfred dropped the mug he'd been holding, momentarily forgetting his decorum, letting his jaw hang open. He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he crossed the room, folding the boy into his arms, showering him with words of relief and love. Dick clutched at his dress shirt, burying his face in the man's shoulder, his body suddenly wracked with sharp, strangled sobs as he trembled dangerously.

"It's alright. You're home now." The butler soothed through his own tears. "Master Dick, you're home."

* * *

Stupid.

That was what he was. Stupid, naive, too trusting, and all too willing to put his life in the hands of an enemy, to believe that that enemy...his  _creator,_  could ever see him as anything more than an experiment...a human...a Kryptonian... _someone_  that wasn't just 'The Superboy".

He should have known.

Luthor had kept calling him by his butchered excuse for a Kryptonian name; Kon-el. It had no meaning, no significance in its originating language. It was nonsense, a syllable, a mockery of a name, just like he was a mockery of a person. A clone.

Connor dug his fingers into the flesh of his forearms, pressing hard against the all-too vulnerable skin. How could he be so stupid? He'd been face-to-face with Clark. The man had given him an out.

" _Don't you trust me?"_

Clark shouldn't have. He  _knew_  better. He knew Luthor and all his cruelties. He knew everything the man was capable of.

" _Don't you trust me?"_

Connor closed his eyes, trying to force the memory away. They'd only just been learning to trust each other, to get to know each other...and he'd never thought...he'd never thought that would the last time they would meet. Luthor's  _son_  could leave the penthouse. Luthor's  _son_ could have friends and freedom and a life.

But Kon-El? Kon-El could have nothing.

Lex was keeping him in a small room–more of a cell really–fronted by thick glass, and devoid of more than a bed and a latrine. It reminded him of his cell at the Compound, but worse somehow, if that was even possible. He was poked and prodded all the same; hooked up to machines, strapped down to tables. Currently there were still wires poking out of his flesh, running through the wall into Luthor's main computer. He wanted to rip them out, but it wasn't worth setting off the alarm and alerting the security team. His moments alone were scarce enough. In the midst of all the experiments, he needed some time to think...in order to keep his sanity.

However, that time was cut short as he spotted Luthor entering the adjacent lab, dressed in a long white coat, a small crystal of Kryptonite hanging around his neck.

(That stuff was slowly killing the man, but it was almost like he couldn't keep away from it for long).

"If I'm anything, Kon-El, I'm a man of my word." Luthor shouted, his voice barely making it through the thick glass. He sidled up to the divider, plastering a newspaper against the smooth surface, a dark grin on his face.

Connor squinted at the small print, catching the name of the paper–The Gotham Herald–before anything else. It took him a moment to locate the thing that Luthor wanted him to see...but when he did, he found himself filled with relief.

It wasn't the top story, but it  _had_  made the front page; just a tiny little blurb of an article...but there it was, in black and white.

" **Boy Wonder Returns Home."**

Connor closed his eyes.

It hadn't been for nothing. Dick was free. He was okay. He was away from the cruelties capable of breaking his boundless spirit and turning his heart cold. If there was one thing Connor couldn't bear to see...it was the fire in Robin's eyes extinguished forever. Dick would help everyone: Wally, Bruce, even Clark.

No one needed Connor Kent. They needed Dick Grayson...and if this was what he had to endure to make that happen...he would.

He would.

 


	17. Resolve

**Chapter Seventeen: Resolve**

Dick slept for days.

Bruce refused to leave his side, holding his hand as he went through all the symptoms of withdrawal; the night terrors, the tremors, the nausea. The boy was delirious most of the time, eyes glazed over and distant, untold horrors playing behind their surfaces. Bruce refused to leave him, rage growing inside of his chest with every passing hour. He had allowed this to happen. He had allowed his  _son_  to be taken away–essentially allowed him to be tortured–for a crime he wasn't even guilty of.

And the entire time, Bruce had just  _sat_ , staring out the window like a forlorn widow, waiting uselessly, while all these atrocities occurred. His parents would be so ashamed. How could he have let them down so completely?

Bruce narrowed his eyes as Dick cried out in his sleep.

No more.

"Bruce?" A voice whispered into the darkness. Bruce turned to the door, where Clark Kent stood, his back hunched over and arms tucked into his sides, in a futile attempt to appear smaller.

"Clark." Bruce replied, motioning for the man to come closer.

The Kryptonian took a few quiet steps into the room, eyes locked onto Dick's sleeping form; warring emotions playing across his face as his mind ran in circles. Bruce knew what he was feeling; he knew the turmoil and the pain curling around in his gut at the sight of the boy. Clark's eyes snapped to the bruises on Dick's arms, his expression darkening as he realized what they were from. Nervously, the Kryptonian ran a hand over his own arms, the scars hidden beneath another long-sleeved sweater.

Silence reined for too long.

"Did you go see Connor?" Bruce asked, his voice hanging abruptly in the air.

"Yes." Clark replied, snapping out of his thoughts, his anger fading away as the subject switched to his clone. "He made a deal with Lex to free Dick..."

"What?" Bruce demanded, narrowing his eyes. "Clark–"

"We talked about it, Bruce...Lex seemed to be treating him well. It was his choice."

"Luthor  _lies_." Bruce snapped, his voice laced with venom. He knew that Clark was trusting, but this? Lex had just  _walked_  out of the compound, unscathed despite his veritable career in supervillainy. How could Clark turn a blind eye to that? How could Clark trust his archenemy with a child that was practically his son?

Or with any child for that matter?"

"Connor  _begged_  me to trust him. I had to. I can't keep ordering him around." The Kryptonian closed his eyes. "He'll only resent me more."

Bruce sighed, shaking his head.

"You need to make sure to check up on him."

"I will, Bruce."

Clark shifted awkwardly, moving to kneel by Dick's bedside, his lips pulled into a frown as the boy thrashed in his sleep, his hand blindly grasping at the air until the Kryptonian took it in his own.

"That modified fear toxin...it's some nasty stuff." Clark whispered, his eyes straying to Dick's arms again. "The hallucinations..."

Silence fell over the room once more, only broken by Dick's labored breathing.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Eclipse would only continue to toy with their lives, dragging broken spirits and bodies through the mud until nothing of the old heroes were left. Many of them had been allowed freedom, yes, but if Eclipse had attacked unprovoked before, who was to say that they wouldn't do it again?

Bruce's eyes snapped to Clark, who was still kneeling by Dick's bedside, whispering softly in melodic Kryptonian.

How long until  _Clark_  was accused of conspiring with aliens, or plotting his way into the Phantom zone? How long until he was a headliner on the news, reported to have been taken away in a white van, or shot full of Kryptonite bullets and left to die?

Then there were all the others...Ollie, and Dinah, and Zatara, and  _everyone_. Why would an organization, so dead-set on leveling the playing field, even let them live? They'd find a way to wipe them out one by one by one...until nothing was left.

Bruce contemplated this only a moment, before steeling his resolve and speaking into the darkness.

"I think I'm ready to see the cave again."

* * *

There was something humanizing about having a bed. His entire life, Jaime had taken falling asleep on a vertical, comfortable, surface, for granted; right along with having clothing and books, and  _fresh air._ As he lay on his back, staring at the blaring lights mounted to the ceiling of his cell, he could almost forget the lump nestled between his shoulder blades, and the bulky metal clamped around his throat.

It wasn't long before he felt Khaji-Da start to squirm, its little needle-point legs twitching around in his flesh, silently panicking. Jaime sighed, rolling over onto his stomach, feeling the scarab's relief when it was no longer squished against the mattress.

"For a high-tech piece of alien weaponry, you sure are a scaredy cat."

" _I am not a cat."_ The scarab huffed.

"It's an expression."

" _An expression of human_ _ **stupidity**_ _."_

Jaime sighed, burying his face in the single, stiff, pillow on his bed, breathing slowly as he tried to fall back asleep. He wanted it to be dark, so he could forget where he was...so he could pretend that he was back home in his own room, with his mother and father and sister right down the hall...

" _Your muscles will being to degrade if you continue to sleep so much."_ The scarab quipped, dragging Jaime away from his memories.

"Stop lecturing me." The boy snapped, covering his ears, despite knowing that it would do him no good.

" _You are my host. I am only looking out for_ _ **our**_ _best interests."_

"There isn't anything else to do here."

It was true. Since the docs had found a functioning collar, his days had been filled with nothing but staring at the wall and bickering with Khaji-Da. He'd expected them to run more tests; to poke and prod at the scarab until the skin of his back bled. But no.

They'd done  _nothing.._

" _Then tell me more about earth."_  Khaji-Da demanded.

Jaime sighed again, sitting up, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"I don't know what else to say."

" _Tell me about sleep. Why do you do so much of it? You've already replenished your energy."_

Jaime shook his head. That was something that he  _couldn't_  explain. Not to something as logical and driven as Khaji-Da. He couldn't explain the comforting feeling of oblivion; of the darkness that would creep in on his mind and push everything away, until he could forget the horror of the waking world...Until he could forget the constant feeling of the alien  _thing_  between his shoulders, and push its grating voice out of his mind...if only for a little while.

Until he could dream.

" _ **Tell me."**_  The scarab demanded, digging its legs deeper into his flesh. Jaime flinched, screwing his eyes shut.

"It's because...sometimes when humans sleep, they can see these imaginary scenes in their heads. They're called Dreams...I don't think you'd be able to understand the concept."

" _Go on..."_

"I had a dream last night..." The boy continued, picturing the scene just as it had played out. "And in it, I was still with my parents, and we were having dinner together. Everything was great." He allowed himself a short chuckle before pressing on, feeling the scarab's irritation at his hesitation. "At one point, I got a call from Batman, and we went out fighting crime together. He just showed up at my window and asked me to help."

Khaji-Da let out a low trill; the scarab version of a scoff.

" _That would never happen."_

"I know." Jaime continued. "But, when I'm asleep, it  _can._  Anything can."

" _What purpose does that serve? It seems illogical."_

"I don't know." The boy buried his face in his knees, feeling tears prickling at the edges of his eyes. "All I know is that, when I'm awake, everything's  _wrong_. You shouldn't be here, and I shouldn't be here, and none of this should even be happening. I can just close my eyes, and–"

Jaime stopped mid sentence as the door to his cell opened, and the doc walked in, flanked on both sides by stone-faced orderlies. His blood turned to ice as he froze in place, watching their approach like a deer in the headlights.

"Good afternoon, Blue."

In his mind, Khaji-Da bristled, swearing in a low, guttural language.

Jaime remained silent, his eyes tracking the men as they got closer and closer, wanting to curl up beneath the covers, as if that would protect him at all.

"There's someone who wants to meet you, Blue."

The boy yelped as he was roughly dragged to his feet by one of the orderlies, the metal floor cold beneath his bare feet. In all the months he'd been inside the compound, he'd never left his cell... _never_. Now, suddenly, everything was changing way too fast, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to keep up.

" _Where are they taking us?_ "Khaji-Da shrieked.

"I-I don't know." Jaime whispered as softly as he could. However, he still received a sharp tug on his arm, and a gruff reprimand.

"Are you still talking to  _it_?" The doc demanded, his lips pulled down in distaste. "We might have to do something about that."

A feeling of dread rose in Jaime's gut, and he snapped his eyes to the floor, letting himself be led out of his cell, and into the unknown corridors of the compound.

* * *

"Which kind do you think Tim'll like?" Billy asked, leaning over the edge of one of the large industrial freezers the resistance kept in their hideout. He sifted through the dozens and dozens of prepackaged tv dinners they had managed to stockpile, contemplating a chicken strip one, before setting it aside, and going for a pulled pork sandwich.

"I don't really care." La'Gann said, with a dismissive wave of his webbed had. "That  _ri'sojba_  should starve."

Billy's lips turned into a frown, before he slammed the freezer lid shut, balancing several dinners in one arm. The Atlantean had been at the base for only a week, and already, he was getting on Billy's last nerve. He was loud, obnoxious, and  _very_  opinionated. However, it appeared that he wasn't going anywhere, as he and M'gann had really hit it off...somehow.

"He's just a kid."

"There' something wrong with him." The Atlantean scoffed. "His eyes are too old. In Atlantis, that's the sign of..." He fished around for the right word a moment, before continuing, "A cursed one?"

Billy's frown deepened as he started making his way to the stairs, clutching the food to his chest and ignoring the Atlantean as he padded after him.

"He's trying to hunt my people down. He's trying to hunt  _your_  people down. How can your forgive that?"

Billy could feel the Captain moving along the edges of his consciousness, tempering his anger as it threatened to boil over.

La'Gann didn't understand how easy it was to give into power. He didn't know how easy it was to lose your way when, suddenly, everything you ever wanted was right within reach. You only had to cross a few moral boundaries on the way–only had to compromise your integrity–and once you did, it was so hard to stop...so hard to go back.

Billy gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. He firmly believed that Tim was a pawn in Eclipse's game; a kid with too much intelligence who just happened to be close enough to catch in their claws. It would take time, but he could be saved...he could be changed.

Billy was looking forward to getting to know the real Timothy Drake.

* * *

Every so often, Roy would forget.

There were times when he'd swear that his arm was still there, passing through the air as he gestured, or resting on his mattress as he slept. Sometimes there would be sensation; pain running through imaginary nerves and into his brain. He'd tried explaining it to Ollie, but the man had simply looked at him sadly, before slinking off in his business suit to take care of his failing company. Dinah had been much more helpful, explaining the phenomenon of phantom pain, giving him painkillers that couldn't possibly work on something that wasn't really there.

Still, he kept taking them, sometimes sneaking extra doses from the cabinet; popping pills and emptying syringes into his veins. No one in the manor really paid any attention to him.. He needed a way to distract himself from his memories; a way to escape from the sterile walls closing in on him, and the pitying tone of his caretaker's voices.

It wasn't long before it became a habit...an  _addiction_.

All alone, Roy began his descent into the dark.


End file.
